


A Series of Unfortunate Outfits

by CrowleyLovesUSUK



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Crush, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Cosplay, Crushes, First Kiss, First Time, Human Names Used, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Oral Sex, Public Humiliation, Relationship(s), Situational Humiliation, country names used, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowleyLovesUSUK/pseuds/CrowleyLovesUSUK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America has a very strange way of psyching himself up to interact with the love of his life, England.  But when England interrupts his ritual, the super power is left totally humiliated.  Will a series of misunderstandings, horrible embarrassments, and a little help (harm) from their friends give both nations the happy ending they desire?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Practicing Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> AN: USUK/UKUS (I think I’m going to have both in this—ooh my first time writing USUK—exciting!) Pre-relationship. Both men have what they think is ‘unrequited love’ for the other. So cute. Embarrassment, misunderstandings, fluffy fluff, and then LOTS of sex. Rated M for yaoi, boys love, lots of language (America has a potty mouth!), references to masturbation, hardcore boy sex. Apologies for any OOC-ness.
> 
> Characters: England (Arthur Kirkland); America (Alfred F. Jones)  
> Other nations are mentioned or featured such as France (Francis), Canada (Matthew), Lithuania (Toris), Germany, Russia (Ivan), Prussia, Romano, Spain and Poland.
> 
> Relationships: USUK England/America (main);  
> There could be slight hints of Franada (Canada/France) if you want to take it that way (I look at it more as a friendship and they’re just playing match-maker to their friends, but whatever you wish). Also mentions of a possible LietPol (Lithania/Poland) relationship.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or anything else pop culture-y that is discussed in this—I just own the story. (If I did own Hetalia then you know damn well that America and England would be married in canon and they would hold hands every day…)

     The United States of America had a problem. A snarky, green-eyed, bushy eye-browed, _gorgeous_ problem—and his name was Arthur Kirkland. England. The United Kingdom. Great Britain. And due to the United States’ landmass, it was also a rather _large_ problem; one that could be potentially awkward.

     America was in love with England.

     Alfred F. Jones was _in love_ with Arthur Kirkland.

     In love. With England. Desperately, hopelessly, passionately, irrevocably in love with his close ally.

     This was a _huge_ problem. Any time that America thought of the older blonde, he would get a goofy looking grin on his face and his eyes would glaze over. Due to the fact that he had a reputation for not taking anything seriously and since Alfred was pretty much _constantly_ thinking about Arthur, most of the other countries just took that as his natural expression. America had been obsessed with England for so long that the dopey look on his face wasn’t seen as anything out of the ordinary during meetings. And while America found most world meeting discussions to be stale and boring, he didn’t really enjoy being thought of as an idiot simply because he was infatuated with Arthur Bloody Kirkland.

     Poor Alfred was so in love with England that he really couldn’t function around the older nation. He always said the wrong thing, or laughed at the worst possible moment, or wore the wrong tie—and it had been going on for years. America wasn’t sure exactly when it had all started, but he knew that he _definitely_ had a thing for England back during the World Wars. Unfortunately for Alfred, he also discovered around the same time that he was the most awkward person in existence when he had a crush on someone.

     Since realizing that he was hopelessly in love with England, America’s public persona at world meetings became more ridiculous by the decade. Alfred always wanted to make the best impression that he possibly could on Arthur, but that was easier said than done. Everything that he did either pissed England off, or made America look like a complete loser. He really did try—but Arthur just made him so _nervous_.

     In an effort to preserve what was left of his dignity, America had perfected a plan to keep from making a complete fool of himself, and for the last few years it had been working beautifully. Whenever America knew that he was going to be around England, he would spend most of the previous evening giving himself a pep talk. Not just any run-of-the-mill ‘you’re the awesome and powerful US of A’ kind of pep talk, mind you. It was a full on performance, guaranteed to make sure that even if he did screw up in front of Arthur, he wouldn’t lose all of his considerable self-esteem.

     The ‘pep talks’ consisted of America getting all dressed up in something of his that made him feel powerful and sexy and irresistible—the way that he wanted Arthur to see him—and acting out possible English Encounters in front of his mirror. Sometimes he put on his old military uniform, sometimes it was the vintage pin stripe suit that he used to wear in the twenties, occasionally it was football gear (the awesome American kind), complete with pads and helmet. Whatever he was feeling at the time, America would dig out the whole ensemble and make sure that he looked _good_.

     Alfred knew that he was an attractive guy, and he had spent his immortal life in some pretty great places so he had a lot of clothes to choose from each time. The only thing he required was that he was dressed to impress before he would stand in front of his full-length mirror (don’t judge, it sometimes came in handy during seduction), and rehearsed how his meetings with England may unfold.

     Rehearsing an imaginary conversation with the nation that he was in love with may have been a little…odd…or perhaps dorky, but America _swore_ by the outcome. He had managed to prepare himself enough that he could usually save the situation when he did something wrong, with England being none the wiser. As long as his little ritual kept working out for Alfred, he was going to keep on keeping on.

     Starting the next morning, a conference of nations was meeting in New York City and since America was the host country, he had home field advantage. He planned on spending the time that he would save on travel by making sure he was the perfect, confidant image of a hero in time for tomorrow’s meeting. This was excellent, due to the fact that the last time he had seen England he had accidentally insulted Arthur’s fish and chips by innocently remarking that the chips seemed ‘a little soggy, dude’; a comment that had earned him a whack upside the head. While he was happy that England’s skin had touched his, he wasn’t thrilled about being hit—not unless there was a safe word and England was naked, of course.

     That little fantasy was just a pipe dream, America knew. He was confident that no matter how he felt about Arthur, there was no way that the British man would _ever_ feel the same way about him. Arthur was just so closed off, and to be honest, rude—Alfred was pretty sure that England hated him and only tolerated his presence for the purpose of having a superpower for an ally. That thought should have cooled his emotions regarding England, but it did no such thing. America didn’t care if England never saw him as anything but an annoying kid—Alfred loved him anyway.

     Luckily, due to their ‘special relationship’ cultivated in the political arena, the two nations were practically inseparable if they were in the same time zone. England always said it was “to keep up appearances for the people” but America always indulged in the fantasy that it was really because England _wanted_ to be around him. That was why _he_ did it—nothing to do with the people and one hundred percent to do with how those big green eyes made him melt. The best part of having a ‘special relationship’ with England was that whenever the meetings were held in their respective countries, the two men stayed at each others home.

     This was _fantastic_ because it meant extra time to hang out with England, but it was also _horrible_ because it meant that England would be in his house taking showers and sleeping and wandering around in his flannel pajama bottoms. Whenever Alfred knew that he would be sharing such close space with the love of his life, he had to step up his game to prepare himself for his inevitable awkwardness.

     Armed with the advance knowledge that England would be there in the morning at seven am sharp and expecting tea and hospitality, America knew that tonight he would have to bring out the big guns—figuratively speaking—in order to make sure that he didn’t do something horrifically embarrassing before Arthur had time to unpack.

     America made the rounds to each room of his house to make sure that things were at least acceptable for company. He always took care to straighten up for England when the older man would visit, but he didn’t wish to make it look as though he were trying too hard. In order to keep up the façade of not caring what Arthur thought of him, he would intentionally leave some things around the house messy—he knew that England loved to criticize him, so it worked out for the best. After artfully crumpling some fast food wrappers on the kitchen table and countering that action by making sure that the guest room had clean sheets, Alfred hurried upstairs to his room.

     Flinging open his closet doors, America pulled a large army issue trunk out of the back and began digging through the contents. He knew _exactly_ what he was looking for tonight. The past few weeks, he had been catching a lot of old westerns on the movie channels and the likes of Eastwood or the Duke were heavily influencing the young nation’s thoughts at the moment. No one was more bad-ass than a cowboy. America should know—he cut quite a figure back in the eighteen hundreds chumming around with the likes of Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sometimes he missed those days. He didn’t get much opportunity to play cards and drink like a fish for no reason, six-shooter strapped to his thigh, now a days. The last time he had tried to organize a poker party with some of the other nations just so he could break out the old cowboy hat, the night ended with quite a few bloody noses and for some reason Poland refused to speak to him for a few months afterward. No matter—tonight was just for America.

     Hands grasping what he had been looking for, America pulled his old hat, vest and other assorted western accoutrements out of the trunk. Shaking the dust off of the fabric, he carefully laid the clothes out on his bed. Stripping off his usual worn t-shirt and jeans, America got down to his patriotic boxer briefs and placed the faded cowboy hat on his head. Spinning quickly toward the mirror, he stick his fingers out in an imitation of a gun and growled “Fastest hands in the West” to his reflection.

     Yeah, he still had it.

* * *

 

Arthur Kirkland was positively exhausted. He hadn’t slept for over 36 hours and the fatigue was beginning to show on his pale face. Normally he had no trouble sleeping on planes, however, tonight, England had been busy going over his speech for the next day and re-checking his painstakingly researched note-cards. Plus, the fact that he was going to be in America’s house within a few hours had the normally composed nation on edge.

     England knew that the time was fast approaching when his secret would be out in the open. For god’s sake, _France_ knew. In fact, England was pretty sure that _all_ of the nations knew—all of them except America. Poor, oblivious, ridiculous, _beautiful_ America had no idea that England was in love with him; and had been for some time. England couldn’t put an exact date on the moment when he realized that he loved America in _that_ way, but he did know that during the nineteen forties, just about the only thing that kept him sane was admiring how nicely Alfred filled out his uniform.

     Just thinking about the boy in dog tags, saluting was enough to send England running for his room and a little ‘personal time.’ Although, he did look dashing in a suit as well—the roaring twenties were testament to that. And even if he hadn’t thought of America in a romantic sense in the eighteen hundreds, England couldn’t deny that the Western Expansion and the ensuing ‘cowboy-up’ persona the young nation had adopted during that time, wasn’t delicious. Something about Alfred in spurs was just too much to handle.

     Remembering that fateful poker night a few years ago and how damn fine America had looked in his cowboy hat, had a rush of heat spreading across the blonde’s face. Fanning himself with his note-cards, England shifted uncomfortably in his small airplane seat and hummed low in his throat. Everyone at the party had been a little bit in lust with Alfred that evening, England was sure of that. Between the lewd comments from France regarding America “being ridden like a stallion” and Lithuania outright staring, causing a jealous Poland to throw all the cards on the floor and storm out—Arthur knew that none of the other nations saw America as a child after that night.

     Shaking his head and blinking harshly, Arthur knew that he had to stop his fantasizing in so public a place or he would find himself in a rather ungentlemanly predicament. And there was _no way_ that he was going to hop in an airplane loo for a quick wank. Not when they were sitting at the gate, waiting to disembark. He could most certainly wait until later tonight, make some excuse to Alfred about needing to shower off his travels and indulge himself in the American’s shower. Simple. Elegant. Didn’t involve having an erection in public.

     The passenger next to him stood and grabbed their bag, allowing England to shimmy out of his seat and take his place in line for the exit. Pulling out his phone, Arthur checked to see if he had received any messages during his flight. There was one from his boss, reminding him to check in when he landed—couldn’t have the personification of England going missing from the Prime Minister, now could we? There was also a voicemail from France detailing a rather disturbing dream he had about Spain, tomato paste, and a bull-fighter’s costume. England pressed the delete button on that one quickly; he didn’t need to hear about Francis’ perverted fantasies.

     The text messages were more of the same. Two from France adding more unwanted details about his dream and a third asking if Arthur thought the nocturnal adventures with Spain meant that France was beginning to like the brunette man once again. Unfortunately, there was nothing from Alfred. England was a bit worried about the young nation’s silence, especially since he had called and left him multiple voicemails informing Alfred that he would be taking an earlier flight and arriving tonight instead of tomorrow morning. Usually the American was glued to his phone, so England was a bit curious as to why he hadn’t received any acknowledgment about the change in plans. Well, he trusted that it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. What would Alfred be doing tonight anyway? They had a meeting in the morning. Surely the boy was preparing his presentations or picking out a suit or…at least just trying to get a good night’s sleep. Doubtful as all of those scenarios were, England could still hope.

     Making his way toward the baggage claim, England decided to send a quick reply to France in regards to his disturbing dream recollection. Dear lord, Arthur hoped that Francis wasn’t rekindling his feelings for Antonio. They were a disaster to everyone around them—as proven by the Portuguese Restoration War. Plus, England had a pretty good idea that Spain’s possessive boyfriend, Romano wouldn’t be too excited to hear that France had designs on the Spaniard. At the very least, he would make sure to spend some time talking with Francis at the meeting tomorrow and making sure that the ‘baguette stayed inside the cloak,’ so to speak.

     Gathering his luggage off of the turn style in record time, England wandered out front of the airport, and waited in the queue for a taxi. He used the few minutes of downtime to send a text to America inquiring if the younger nation was at home and expecting him. When his turn arrived, Arthur handed his bags to the driver and slid in the backseat, allowing himself to collapse against the sticky leather, overcome with the exhaustion creeping into his bones. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was getting older. Not as old as the Frog, mind you, but he was beginning to feel the weight of the centuries.

     Arthur gave Alfred’s address to the cab driver and felt his eyes begin to flutter shut as the taxi pulled onto the interstate. He still hadn’t heard from America. No matter, if he arrived and Alfred wasn’t there to meet him, Arthur wasn’t worried. It couldn’t be that hard to find a spare key if push came to shove. He knew that Alfred left one out for him in case he ever decided to drop by. And knowing America, he probably hid it in the most obvious spot possible—under a flower pot or the welcome mat most likely. England rested his head against the cool glass of the window and let sleep overtake him. He just hoped that he didn’t dream about America during his taxi nap—explaining to the driver about any unconscious moans would be most embarrassing.


	2. Collision Course

     America had been dancing around in front of his mirror for about half an hour when he realized that he needed some tunes to add to his little ritual. Poking around his room, he began to search for his phone, only to realize that he couldn’t find it anywhere. Scrunching up his face in serious thought, Alfred tried to remember the last place that he had seen the phone. It was a trick that England had taught him when he was a kid and it usually worked pretty well.

     Unfortunately, as soon as thoughts of England crossed his mind, America couldn’t really recall what a phone actually was, much less the last place he had seen the device. _‘Mmmm,’_ America thought, smiling, _‘England looks so hot when he talks on the phone.’_ All of a sudden, Alfred seemed to come to his senses—he obviously had it _bad_ if his thoughts were centering around Arthur screaming into his mobile. America had more important things to take care of at the moment—namely making sure that he looked sexy in his cowboy clothes. Deciding that he would just look for his cell later, Alfred powered up the laptop on his dresser and put on one of his favorite playlists. Once the music was coming from the tinny little computer speakers, America sauntered over to his bed and grabbed his leather vest off of the pile he had placed there.

     Shrugging the vest on over his bare chest, Alfred smiled to see that it still fit perfectly. Smiling as he adjusted the tarnished U.S. Marshal’s badge that adorned the well-worn leather, America allowed himself a few moments of reminiscing at the good old days before he got back to the task at hand. Pawing through the pile on his bed, Alfred was surprised to find that his pants weren’t among the clothes he had pulled out from the trunk. That was odd, because he knew they should be there. No matter, America wasn’t all too fond of those pants anyway since they were so stiff and scratchy. He’d find them another time. America knew that he had to get a move on, he was going to need all the time he could manage in order to work through what was sure to be an agonizingly tempting week.

     As much as he loved his boxer briefs, done up in a glorious print of the red, white and blue, America knew they weren’t really going to work with the aesthetic of the whole ‘cowboy’ get-up. Not even giving it a second thought, Alfred yanked off his briefs, tossed them in the corner and pulled on the smooth leather chaps that he had worn so long ago. The final touch was strapping his old holster to his hip and thigh, tilting his hat down over his forehead and he was ready.

     Standing in front of his mirror, America grinned and nodded his head in approval of his own reflection. Damn, he was hot! Why couldn’t England see that? Thrusting his hip a bit to the side, Alfred placed his hand on the empty holster as though he was ready to quick draw.

     “’I got two guns, one for each of ‘ya’” Alfred’s voice was deeper than usual as he quoted from one of his favorite westerns, _Tombstone_. He immediately broke character and started giggling immaturely at the fact that he was basically naked. A cowboy hat, a vest with no shirt, and chaps with no pants. And to top it off, the past few hours of thinking of nothing but England had caused the young country to sport a very prominent boner. He looked like a total porn star!

     America had to admit, it was kind of a funny sight—even though he did look amazing. Alfred wiggled his hips at the mirror causing his erection to bounce rather comically. He probably would have gotten laid a lot more back then if he had went around with no pants. Although, it would have made riding pretty unbearable. Scratch that. He was glad he wore pants in the old west, even if it had cut in on his sexual exploits. He didn’t want anyone except for England now anyway.

     America grinned thinking of the look on England’s face if he would ever have the guts to wear this ensemble in front of his crush. The stodgy, sweater-vest wearing country would probably be appalled and call him a ‘bloody cunting moron’ or something of that nature. England was so cute when he swore. The foul language from Arthur’s pirate days combined with modern slang that he had managed to pick up provided quite the interesting string of insults that America found utterly adorable whenever the Brit was riled up. He _never_ intentionally irritated Arthur just to hear him launch into a tirade of foul-mouthed insults—scouts honor!

     Winking at his expression and dancing along to the beat of his music, America tipped his wide brimmed hat to his reflection and said, “It sure is great to see you England.” Pausing for a second, the blonde nation straightened and shook his head. Muttering to himself, “No, no not England—Arthur. Use his name, make it more personal. Yeah, Arthur.” Smiling again, he placed his hand exactly where it had been on the brim of his hat and once again winked saying, “It sure is great to see you _Arthur_.” He added a little twang to England’s name to give it emphasis. _‘Good start.’_

     Nodding to himself, he removed the hand from his hat and held it out toward his reflection in the gesture of a handshake. “How have you been partner?” his nose immediately scrunched up in disgust. _‘Partner? Really, Alfred?’_ he thought. _‘You’re not actually going to act like a freaking cowpoke in front of England—Arthur. He’d think you were stupid.’_ The carefree grin slipped a bit from America’s face. “He already thinks I’m stupid,” Alfred muttered darkly to himself.

     Puffing up his cheeks and letting out a shaky sigh, America pulled his shoulders back in an attempt to project confidence. “You can do this,” he almost shouted at the mirror. This would be easier if he wasn’t still hard. It was kind of difficult to try and be charming and sexy and confidant when your dick kept bouncing against your abs. Not that he was going to get soft any time soon, America conceded that fact. Once he had England in his mind, the only way his cock was going limp was after a good jerk-off session; preferably while looking at one of the photo albums that Alfred kept of the two of them—which was totally normal and not weird because they were friends and friends kept pictures of each other. They might not jizz all over the other’s picture on a regular basis—but Alfred was a hero, and heroes were totally not creepy!

     Alfred shifted his position and turned so that his back was facing the mirror. This way he had to turn and glance over his own shoulder at the reflection. That was better. His game wasn’t thrown off by his dick, and he had to admit that the chaps made his ass look really good—really good—like, _Spain_ good.

     He tightened the muscles of his ass a few times and laughed, “I knew England was full of shit! My diet is perfectly fine—look at that!” America smacked a hand across the bare skin of his butt and kept admiring himself in the mirror. He had no way of knowing that the self-inflicted spanking coincided with the faint sound of a car door slamming on the street out front. That, combined with the music and Alfred’s own running commentary on how amazing he looked, covered any sounds coming from the yard. At least for the time being.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

     When the driver announced their arrival, Arthur hardly registered the cost of the fare, simply pushing a wad of bills at the man that he had kept from his last visit to the States, and stumbling out of the cab. After gathering his suitcase and adjusting his jacket, Arthur looked up at the dark face of Alfred’s house. There were no lights on in any of the windows that he could see and England glowered, noticing that the porch light was out as well. _‘Damn it Alfred!_ ’ the Brit’s thoughts turned as dark as the night around him. Dragging his wheeled suitcase behind him up the cracked cobblestones of America’s front walk, Arthur found himself muttering curses under his breath about the young country.

     “Stupid bloody wanker,” he murmmered. “Inconsiderate ass, isn’t even home to greet me properly.” Arthur managed to push away any thoughts of the change in plans and how he was actually arriving relatively unannounced if his unanswered messages were anything to go on. Gripping the strap of the luggage with both hands, England hefted the unwieldy bag up on to the front porch with a loud grunt. The bag slammed hard onto the wooden planks of Alfred’s stoop, making enough noise that even the soft sound of the crickets halted for a moment.

     Perhaps America _was_ at home. Maybe he was watching a film, or in the shower, or even already asleep? England knew that he had to at least attempt propriety and he approached the front door with determined steps. Allowing himself a single moment to collect his thoughts which were still blurry from sleep and arousal, England let out a large breath and steeled his nerves. He rapped sharply on the large door before him and even pressed the bell a few times. After about two minutes he decided that no, America was _not_ home after all. Fine. All he had to do was find the spare key.

     Even if America hadn’t specifically told England that he kept a spare key hidden, Arthur would have figured it was a reasonable deduction due to Alfred’s somewhat clumsy tendencies. The young blonde probably locked himself out in a towel at least once a month. Arthur’s mouth watered a bit at that visual. America’s neighbours were lucky indeed if that scenario were to ever happen.

     Forcing his mind back to the task at hand, England began to poke around America’s porch and in between the potted plants, flowers and bushes the were scattered around the front yard. He remembered a few years ago, America had informed him that he put a spare key out so that England ‘could always get into America’s home if he ever wanted to come by.’ At the time, Arthur had scarcely dared hope that Alfred may actually be hinting that he _wanted_ him to come for an unexpected visit, but those thoughts were dashed at the next thing out of the brash American’s mouth.

     “I put the key in a place you’re sure to find Artie,” America had slapped him on the back and laughed. “It’s so stupid, I’m almost ashamed that I even bought it. But it fits you perfectly old man.”

     Just as England recalled America’s grating announcement that something ‘stupid’ was perfect for him, Arthur’s green eyes clapped on the one thing that Alfred could have meant that day. There, in the shadows, was a small, ceramic statue placed directly next to a large lilac bush near the porch.

     It was a bloody unicorn.

     And to make matters worse, it was sporting a rainbow coloured mane and holding a large teapot in one of its front hooves. _‘That bloody cunting wanker!’_ England was furiously glaring at the offending statue. He knew that he was right. Of course America left a key ‘just for him’ in a stupid, bloody, tea-pot holding, rainbow unicorn.

     Snatching the statue up angrily, Arthur was not at all surprised when a single golden house key fell out of the base when he shook it into his palm. “That bloody stupid arse!” the Brit exclaimed out loud. Really, it was most offensive. But then again, when _wasn’t_ America offensive and mean toward Arthur. All he ever did was poke fun at his clothes, his food, his fairy friends, and most rudely, his precious tea. Arthur always got very angry when he thought about America and tea at the same time. He was still bitter about Boston.

     Scowling, Arthur realized that the fatigue he had been feeling all day was slowly being replaced with pure anger. How dare that brat insult him with that adorable, albeit tacky, unicorn statue? The sooner he got inside, the sooner he could shower and hopefully take care of business. England had a feeling that tonight’s personal time was going to involve some fantasies of hate sex with his gorgeous blonde host. If he couldn’t have the real thing, then Arthur was more than willing to use thoughts of a submissive America as a way to work out his frustrations.

     England headed toward the front door, key in hand.


	3. Midnight Misunderstanding

     The moment that the doorbell rang, America stopped his preening and posing and sad little reenactments and cocked his head curiously. He thought that he had heard the bell, but when he went to peek out of the upstairs window, there weren't any cars or people that he could see out front. Must have been his imagination. Who in world would be stopping by this late at night anyway? As much as America always hoped that one day England would take him up on his long-standing offer of a spare key, Alfred knew that his beautiful, stuffy Brit would _never_ come by to surprise him. England would think it was rude to just stop over, especially this late. Every time Arthur came to the States he would always call ahead and give Alfred a very precise itinerary, which America never really paid attention to.

     Coming to the conclusion that it must have been the wind, America turned away and began to head back toward his room when he heard a voice shout something from his porch. He thought he heard the word "stupid" but he couldn't be sure. It was pitch black outside and Alfred couldn't see anyone in the shadows. He could hear some angry muttering and the rustle of branches. Someone was digging around in his lilac bushes!

     _'Damn!'_ Alfred thought. Lithuania had planted those for him, and even if it was a little girly, Alfred really liked the smell. He didn't want his bushes ruined—he'd have to ask Toris to come replant them and he didn't feel like having anyone else around this week. He was planning on taking full advantage of the fact that it would just be him and England for seven whole days. How could he hope to spend time ogling the gorgeous Englishman and trying to tempt Arthur by wandering around shirtless if he had a Baltic State prancing around in the garden?

     _'Wait a minute,'_ America thought. _'Who the hell would be jumping around in my bushes in the middle of the night?'_   Alfred's perfect lips fell open in surprise—maybe it was a burglar? Well not on his watch, that was for damn sure. Glancing down at his old Marshal's badge, America felt a cruel little smirk form on his mouth. No one—absolutely _no one_ robbed the United States of America.

* * *

 

     He still hadn't let go of the ridiculous unicorn statue. Arthur realized that despite its intention of offense, it was still an embodiment of two of his favourite things—unicorns and teapots. He decided that he was going to keep it and damn it all if he cared what America thought. The stupid brat shouldn't have tried to be funny in the first place—well now he was out one garden statue, thanks to his insufferable insolence. England even had the perfect place to put it in his own garden.

     Clutching the unicorn in his left and gripping the key and the handle of his suitcase in his right, Arthur stomped up to the front door. Letting out an angry sounding snort, and shaking his head, he reached out to place the key into the lock. Due to the absence of the porch light and the deep blackness around him, it took several tries before the key slid into place. The door swung open into a dark, empty front hallway. England gripped his suitcase and dragged it over the threshold, propping it up next to the stairs. Setting the unicorn down on the table next to the door, Arthur reached over to flick on the light switch, but the welcome illumination never occurred. Before his fingers made contact with the light, England was tackled roughly.

     From the room to his left, something large shot out of the shadows, slamming into his already exhausted body and sending him crashing against the hard wooden floor. His right elbow cracked hard beneath him and he felt a sharp pain shoot up his arm as he landed.

     Who in the bloody fuck was wandering around America's house in the middle of the night with all the lights off? England's sleep addled mind came immediately to the conclusion that it was obviously a burglar and he was going to do whatever he could to take down the thieving scoundrel. _No one_ was allowed to mess with America on England's watch.

     Whoever had jumped him was obviously much larger than himself and stronger to boot—but the United Kingdom did _not_ go down without a fight. Despite the mounting pain in his arm, he hooked his legs around the person who was pinning him to the ground, and drove his left elbow up towards his attackers face. He grinned somewhat sadistically when he felt the connection and ensuing crunch of what he assumed was the larger man's nose.

     A hiss of pain followed by "Holy shit! That fucking hurts!" had England pushing himself backwards along the floor trying to scoot away. He recognized that voice. He knew it better than he knew his own. Sliding out from underneath the other man, England pushed himself over to the wall, clutching his wounded elbow. Still sitting on the ground, he flailed his arm upwards, eventually connecting with the light switch and sending the darkened hallway into a dim glow.

     America was kneeling on the floor a few feet away, holding his nose, a thin stream of blood seeping out from between his fingers—and he was naked.

     Well, to be completely honest, he wasn't _entirely_ naked but he may as well have been in Arthur's mind. The cowboy hat he had worn on poker night was tossed off to the side where it had fallen in the struggle. A worn brown leather vest set snugly against Alfred's shoulders, unbuttoned and showing off his impeccable pectoral muscles and impressive biceps. England knew his mouth was wide open as he stared in shock at his crush, but as his eyes traveled over the boy's entire body he knew that the heavy feeling in his chest wasn't only shock.

     America was wearing leather chaps.

     _Only_ leather chaps. No pants.

     _'Oh my god,'_ England managed to think. _'America was lying on top of me! Like that!'_ Despite being incredibly embarrassed, he was also painfully aware of how turned on he was. He had spent many nights picturing the two of them tangled together with America's pelvis grinding into his own. However, none of those scenarios included inflicting any pain on the younger nation.

     A deep blush spread across his pale face, and Arthur could feel it burning, a mockery of his emotions for anyone to see. England gulped hard and dug his fingers into his sore elbow, blinking rapidly and staring unabashedly at his ally. America's cock was right out there in the open for anyone to see, and it was _hard._ It was the most beautiful and glorious sight that England had ever witnessed in his long existence. His fantasies of the younger blonde came nowhere near the perfection of the real thing. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the image of Alfred's dick jutting out and surrounded by all of that leather. Arthur tried to swallow away the lump in his throat to no avail.

     Feeling his own cock stirring below his belt, England forced himself to look away, knowing that if he kept on staring that he would soon be just as hard as the young nation before him and _'dear God that would be too embarrassing.'_ He lifted his gaze to look at America's face, which wasn't any better for the Brit's psyche. The sight of the poor boy's beautiful blue eyes pricking with tears and the blood still steadily running down his hands made Arthur's stomach twist with guilt.

     "Holy fuck," Alfred moaned. Slowly his blue eyes rose up to meet Arthur's green. He hadn't realized who he had tackled in his front hall until that moment. The second that their eyes locked and America realized that not only was he bleeding unheroically he was also trussed up like a porno cowboy with a raging hard on in front of the man he secretly loved. This was the worst possible scenario—and Alfred hadn't prepared for it in front of the mirror.

     Taking in England's shocked face, America's eyes widened and he felt the heat rise on his cheeks, a dark blush to match his colleague's own embarrassed appearance. America started shaking his head in horror as he scooted backwards along the floor.

     "Alfred," Arthur managed to choke out. "Are you all right?"

     America's response was a sort of high pitched whine and an uncontrollable eye twitch. Without saying anything, Alfred shot to his feet and bolted up the stairs. England watched, despite the awkward situation, he couldn't miss an opportunity to stare at such a perfect ass bouncing up the stairs. Hearing a door slam shut upstairs and the click of a lock, England realized that this was a situation that was not going to be easily fixed.

     Shuffling to his feet, Arthur closed the front door gently and turned the lock, securing America's house. He stood in the entrance for a moment, blinking and trying to decide what to do next. It was too late to try and get a hotel room, although that option was incredibly tempting. Deep down, Arthur knew that he had to stay. Somehow he had to try and right this horrible situation or things between the two countries would never be the same—and England needed America in his life.

     "Bloody fuck," he whispered to himself. Making up his mind, England trudged down the hallway to the kitchen, trying to remain as quiet as possible. He'd find himself an ice pack and brew some tea. He knew that despite the American's protests about the drink that he always kept some on hand for whenever Arthur came to visit. Tea could fix anything.

     Using a dish towel to tie an ice pack around his throbbing elbow, he found America's tea kettle—it was still in the box—and set it up on the stove. He grabbed the tea tin from the cupboard and the Big Ben mug that Alfred kept for him and sat down at the table to wait.

     _'What in the bloody hell am I going to do?'_ England placed his head in his hands. He finally got to see almost everything that America had to offer, and all he felt like doing was screaming and bursting into tears. _'Fuck.'_


	4. Comrade Counsel

     Pacing around his room, Alfred was in a state of pure panic. He honestly had no idea _what_ he was going to do. Jumping headfirst into the Grand Canyon seemed like a viable option, but that would require leaving his room. Grateful that he had an attached master bathroom, Alfred blinked away tears, pressed some bunched up toilet paper to his bleeding nose and began to rummage through his cabinets for some band aids. He was relatively sure that his nose was broken—Arthur was scrappy when cornered—and he knew that there was a deep cut across the bridge of his nose.

     He discovered two boxes of bandages on the back of the shelf and pulled them out. They were both children's band aids. The first box sported a scurvy cartoon pirate complete with eye patch and parrot. Pirates—NO WAY! He wasn't about to put a skull and crossbones bandage on his face and parade around in front of a former pirate who had just seen his junk.

     Speaking of which, Alfred glanced dejectedly down and saw that there was indeed a way for him to lose his mojo without jerking off to England after all. His blush rising once again, he snatched up the second box of band aids angrily, grabbed the first one without looking and pressed it over the cut on his nose. He looked at his own reflection and was confident that the hot pink bandage with 'Princess' written across it was a much better choice than the pirate ones.

     This was a literal nightmare. Worse than the 'showing up at a meeting naked and having everyone laugh at him' nightmare. He was _actually_ naked in front of the one person that he didn't want to be naked in front of—wait. No…he _did_ want to be naked with England. Just in a planned and sexy way, with a big bed and Arthur's tie undone. When he thought about being naked with England it was with the older man lying under him panting and gently touching his face, not elbowing him in the nose and staring at him in horror.

     For the first time in almost a century, Alfred really wanted to cry. The United States didn't cry, but it was a very tempting thought. America sniffed, which hurt his nose, and fought down tears. The last thing he needed was to add puffy crying face to what was sure to be a busted nose and two impressive black eyes and in the morning.

     He could hear the shrill whine of a tea kettle downstairs. England was still here. That thought comforted him and terrified him. It was a good thing that Arthur was staying, maybe that meant that this whole situation could be brushed under the rug. Yeah, they could pretend it never happened and go back to being…sort of friends.

     ' _Yeah right'_ Alfred thought dejectedly. There was NO way that things would ever be normal between them again. America couldn't recall the last time he had messed up this terribly—whenever it had been, he was sure that England had been there to help him out. But now England was part of the problem.

     Kicking his feet as he walked back to his bed, America began pulling off his cowboy clothes, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor. Grabbing the first pair of flannel pajama pants he could find, he tugged them on, anxious to cover up after the evening's excitement. He glanced down at the floor where he had picked up the pants and saw his missing phone, half kicked under the bed. Picking it up, he turned on the screen to see that he had eight new notifications—all of them were from Arthur. After listening to three voicemails, each one increasingly more irritated, and scrolling through five text messages, America closed his eyes and flopped back onto his unmade bed. England had tried to contact him to tell him he was coming and America had been too preoccupied with his stupid ritual to take a second to look at his phone.

     "Son of a bitch!" America moaned, slapping his palm to his forehead. Sometimes Alfred felt like the idiot that the other countries made him out to be, and tonight was one of those times.

     Not knowing what else to do, Alfred picked up the phone again and dialed the second person on his speed dial—England was first, of course.

     A few rings later America sighed with relief as the call connected and a soft voice greeted him saying, "Hey bro, shouldn't you be practicing?" Canada was the only one who knew about Alfred's enormous crush and his coping mechanisms. Even if the shy and usually forgotten country weren't his twin brother, Alfred knew that Matthew would never betray his most embarrassing secret.

     "I fucked up Mattie," Alfred moaned into the phone.

     "What?" Canada sounded confused and a bit concerned. "What happened?"

     Taking a deep breath, America launched into the tale of the worst night of his life, hardly pausing for air while his brother listened in a shocked silence. Finally reaching the point where he had fled to his room, America stopped talking and hiccupped, waiting to see what his brother would say.

     "Oh maple," Matthew muttered. "I am so sorry Al." The sympathetic Canadian didn't quite know what to say—Alfred's story was…horrifying, to say the least. Matthew didn't know what he would do if something similar were to happen to him and he wasn't sure what to tell his obviously distraught brother.

     "Well, what do I do?" America questioned.

     "Um," Canada cleared his throat before speaking. "I think you have to talk to him. You know, just get it over with and face him. Maybe England will just brush it off, you know how he doesn't like to be impolite—he probably wants to just forget it happened too." That was the best advice he could come up with on the spot, and the uncertainty could be heard clearly in the Canadian's soft voice.

     Alfred closed his eyes. "Maybe."

     "Yeah," Matthew seemed a bit more confidant. "Go talk to him. Get it all cleared up before the meeting tomorrow. It probably isn't as bad as you think," the Canadian lied.

     "Okay," Alfred muttered.

     "Listen Al," Matthew spoke up. "It's really late and we both should get some sleep. Your presentation is first thing in the morning, right?"

     "Yeah it is," America had let his speech completely leave his mind after the events of the past hour. "Okay Mattie. Thanks dude. I'll talk to him and…"

     Alfred trailed off and Canada felt a twinge of guilt. His brother was having a serious crisis but he wasn't kidding when he said he needed to get to bed. He would be much more help to America at the meeting tomorrow if he was well-rested. "It'll be okay. I'm sorry Al."

     "Night bro," America disconnected. He didn't blame Canada for wanting to end the call. As supportive as his brother was, he knew that Matthew had _no_ desire to hear about anything _intimate_ involving his brother and England. Canada was probably suffering from enough second-hand embarrassment just hearing about it to give the poor syrup-loving country his own nightmares. America knew that his brother was right. He had to talk to England and get this whole mess cleared up as soon as possible.

     Cracking the door of his room and peeking out, America sighed when he realized that the house was quiet, the lights were off and the guest room door was closed. England had gone to bed.

     Taking a single step, he considered for a moment, knocking and getting this whole awkward thing over with, but the opportunity to put it off until later was too tempting. Closing his door softly, Alfred dove into his bed, and pulled the covers up around him. He would talk to Arthur in the morning. That gave him all night to lie in the dark and figure out what the fuck he was going to say to the beautiful blonde. America was pretty sure that he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight…

     …He was wrong.

     Sun shining through his curtains and across his face, Alfred woke groggily to the sound of his alarm clock beeping incessantly. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Alfred slapped his hand around trying to connect with the blaring alarm clock next to his bed. His glasses were still on, and the pink Princess bandage was half peeled off of his face. Grunting as he rolled over, Alfred's eyes shot open and he sat up straight in bed as he saw the bright numbers on his clock. It was almost noon. The meeting was supposed to start at ten!

     "Damn!" he hopped out of bed and rushed into the bathroom. America grimaced as he looked into the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and the skin underneath bruised and angry. At least he had stopped bleeding sometime during the night.

     Splashing cold water on his face, removing the pink band aid and brushing his teeth in record time, Alfred hurried into his room and grabbed the first pair of jeans and t-shirt that he found lying on the floor of his room. He knew that the outfit was inappropriate for a meeting—especially one in which he was presenting, but he knew that he would catch more flack for being so late than for his clothing.

     Stumbling downstairs while pulling his beloved bomber jacket on, America ran into the kitchen. He found a single plate, fork, mug, and a small fry pan drying in the sink with a note by the coffee maker saying that England had headed to the meeting without him. There was no mention of the night before, but there were also none of the usual endearments that the older nation usually wrote in his letters to America. Arthur always peppered his letters to Alfred with 'loves,' and although he knew that it could simply be 'An English Thing,' Alfred liked to think that Arthur really meant the word.

     If England had left without him, then that meant the limo was gone as well. America would have to drive. Grabbing his car keys and heading to the garage, Alfred just hoped that he wouldn't hit too much traffic on the way into town.

* * *

     Despite a rather awful night of sleep, and the wretched feeling of jet lag, England had awoke rather early with plenty of time to prepare for the day's meeting, unlike America. After taking a quick shower and dressing, Arthur had wandered downstairs where he prepared himself a modest meal of eggs and toast. He knew that Alfred wouldn't mind the use of his kitchen, they both had free reign of the other's home whenever visiting, but he still took care to wash up after himself.

     As he sipped his morning tea, England tried to imagine how the day was going to play out. Most likely America would try to laugh it off with some ridiculous comment, and that thought actually made England a bit angry. This was a situation that they just couldn't laugh off. It was awkward enough for the Brit to have to side-step around his feelings for the younger man, but after seeing the object of his desire all trussed up like a perfectly naughty Western present, Arthur wasn't sure that he could keep his feelings to himself for much longer.

     Maybe this was the catalyst to finally confessing his feelings to Alfred. While England was achingly nervous at the prospect of telling America that he was in love with him, he actually thought that Alfred's embarrassing display from the night before may actually soften the blow and keep the blue-eyed country from mercilessly teasing him for his feelings. He should talk to France. The aggravating, wine-guzzling frog was England's worst enemy, and his best friend.

     In spite of their constant bickering and public displays of animosity, Arthur and Francis were very close and France was the only one in the world to whom England had confirmed his love for America. Predictably, Francis had poked fun at him for falling for the ridiculous brat, but France was the country of love and he found all romance to be irresistible. The frog had spent the last few years trying to set the two men up with a variety of schemes; ranging from hinting that they should meet for a casual dinner, to not-so-subtly pushing Arthur into Alfred's arms and making disturbing smooching sounds.

     England knew that America probably did not wish to see him so soon after last night's incident, and he wanted to try and speak with Francis about the whole situation _before_ the meeting, if possible. Rummaging through America's drawers, he found some sticky notes and a pen and scratched out a quick explanation for his departure. Pulling on his worn pea coat, Arthur grabbed his briefcase, and went out front where the limo that he and Alfred usually shared was waiting.

     Informing the driver that he wished to be taken to the conference center immediately and that America would be fine, England slipped into the backseat and took full advantage of the stocked bar during the short ride. He was going to need something to get through today.

     When the limo pulled up outside of their usual meeting place, England was relieved to see that Francis was lounging outside of the building in a small outdoor café. He was leaning over the small table, his hand gently caressing the flawless skin of his waitress' hands. As Arthur approached he heard the smooth, accented voice purr, "Chéri, you have the most exquisite eyes I have ever seen—you are a true beauty whose painted lips cause my heart to—"

     "Is that the best you can come up with?" England interrupted, his eyebrows furrowing. They were friends, but he still thought that Francis was a cheesy pick-up artist on occasion. The sad part was that most of the humans that he worked his magic upon were entirely smitten with the Frenchman—despite his awful compliments. "You sound like a badly written romance novel."

     Francis pulled his hand away silkily from the young woman's wrist and narrowed his eyes at his old friend. "I would think that spending the night with your precious little Alfred would have you in a—a'hem— _better_ mood Angleterre."

     "Tea please, miss," England cleared his throat as he addressed the waitress and sank down into the seat opposite his friend. The girl looked confused, but she smiled and nodded and went off to gather the requested beverage.

     "What is wrong?" France leaned back in his chair and regarded Arthur. "Usually you are remotely pleasant after spending time with Amerique. Why are you acting like yourself this morning?" Francis smiled seductively at the waitress as she returned and placed a steaming mug of tea in front of Arthur. "Chéri," he hummed as she giggled and walked away. Turning his attention back to his companion, Francis furrowed his perfect brow at the sight of England staring blankly into his teacup. "Angleterre?" he questioned.

     "Oh god," England moaned and place his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the table.

     France was completely taken aback. The Englishman would _never_ place his arms on a table in public—something was very wrong.

     "It was terrible Francis," England wailed looking up into the Frenchman's worried face. Arthur soon found himself guzzling tea and prattling on recounting the previous night to an increasingly amused France.

     When he reached the part about elbowing the young American in the nose, France laughed out loud for a good two minutes before Arthur's furious stare silenced his glee.

     "I am sorry mon ami," France wiped a tear from his eye and smiled. "But you have to admit that you have gone where _no one_ has gone before without _severe_ bodily harm."

     England knit his eyebrows together and cocked his head in a question. "Whatever are you talking about?"

     France grinned wickedly. "You basically attacked The United States of America and what did he do? Sort of cried and ran away. Go ask some of the other nations how they have fared in the past in a similar situation."

     Arthur's green eyes opened in shock. "Well," he sputtered, "of course Alfred wouldn't do anything to me—he knew it was an accident!"

     This time France's smile was no longer lit with amusement, but a cruel twist. "He has been 'accidentally' assaulted before. It did not stop him from 'teaching his own brand of lesson' mon ami. Alfred isn't a forgiving man, despite his usually silly antics. You know that." Francis paused, allowing his words to sink in. "He didn't do anything because it was _you_."

     Arthur became suddenly very interested in his teacup.

     "I know you love him Angleterre," France tilted his head. "I would be willing to bet my bottle of 1967 Romanée-Conti that he is in love with you as well."

     Lifting his head to look at the Frenchman, England pursed his lips, his green eyes lit with fear. "What if he isn't?"

     "He is." France did not hesitate in his response. "Why do you think I have been trying to _thrust_ you together for so many years—even before you told me how you felt?"

     Letting out a shaky sigh, Arthur swallowed and met France's eyes. "I was thinking of telling him."

     "Bon!" France clapped and leaned back in his seat once more. "This is magnificent! You can tell him that you love him and he will tell you that he loves you and then you can caress his muscular body and lay him down in front of the fire and—"

     "Shut your bloody mouth," England held up his hand and glared at his friend.

     France smirked in response, his eyes twinkling with laughter. He knew exactly how to push his friend's buttons. Any time France got overly detailed in his descriptions of sexual acts, especially with America, England would glare and insult him. It was so amusing.

     "So," England resumed his tea sipping. "How do you think I should go about doing this then?"

     France settled into his chair and casually checked his watch. They still had almost a half an hour before the meeting was to start. He waved over the pretty waitress with a smile and a flick of his wrist. "Let us order a croissant and discuss it shall we? I have so many ideas for you Angleterre," France grinned at his worried friend. "If you do exactly what I say, you will have little Amerique _begging_ you to take him."

     England liked the sound of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romanée-Conti—One of the best and most expensive French wines ever made. Hailing from Burgundy, France it is usually a pinot noir.


	5. Fateful Fashion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of a Canada/Russia friendship (specifically stated as friends--just FYI)

     Alfred was _so_ late! He knew that Germany was going to rip him a new one when he arrived and he knew that the other nations would glare and act pissed off until after lunch—except Japan, who wouldn't show if he cared either way. The thing that really upset the young American was that he knew that England would be disappointed in him.

     Arthur would knit his giant eyebrows together and clench his fists and make some comment about his 'insufferable tardiness.' At least, that's what would have happened any other day—before last night happened. Now, Alfred knew that England would be pissed off about him being late, but he was worried that Arthur wouldn't chastise him. He didn't want England to ignore him, no matter how embarrassed either of them were.

     Sliding his car into the valet turnaround in front of the conference center, Alfred tried to avoid the sign announcing "Valet Parking" but he still nicked it, causing the black and white marker to topple over. Flinching a bit, America had hardly placed his car in Park before he was clambering out and tossing his keys to the uniformed attendant. "Sorry man," Alfred called out over his shoulder as he rushed through the doors, "super late—I promise I'll make up for it in the tip!"

     The valet attendant chuckled to himself as he watched Mr. Jones run through the lobby. Sinking into the leather driver's seat, the young man sighed. He was used to crazy, perpetually late Mr. Jones—and he didn't care about anyone careening into his valet sign. He knew the young blonde man would make true on his promise to deliver a large cash tip, and besides, Mr. Jones always had the best cars. The valet grinned as he gunned the engine to park the luxury car in the underground garage. A quick glance through the window showed Mr. Jones repeatedly pressing the elevator's button with increasing panic before finally clambering on with a loud shout of joy.

     Alfred seriously considered abandoning the elevator and going for the stairs when the doors slid open and he pumped his fist in the hair with a loud "Yes!" Despite taking the easier way, America was out of breath and leaning against the back of the elevator when it finally dinged on his own floor. He heaved himself up and jumped out of the elevator almost directly into his brother.

     "Woah, Mattie," he said. "Didn't see ya there, bro!"

     "Jeez Al," Canada shook his head. "You're really late. We're all waiting for you. Germany is about to lose it."

     "Sorry Mattie," America ran his hand through his golden locks. "I didn't hear my alarm and then I just threw on the first thing I could find. I had to drive myself—England took the freaking limo without me!"

     "Yeah," Canada said softly, shifting his eyes toward the open door of the meeting room. "He got here a while ago—with France. I was wondering why you weren't with him."

     "He bolted this morning," Alfred explained. "I didn't get a chance to talk to him last night—he went to bed before I got off the phone with you. This morning he was just…gone."

     "Well, you can try and work it out tonight," Canada stated. "He _is_ staying with you still, isn't he?"

     America shrugged. "I don't know. I guess."

     Canada shook his head and pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Come on, you have to present your speech. Are you seriously wearing a t-shirt?"

     "I told you," Alfred grumbled. "I grabbed the first thing I could find. Whatever. They all think I'm an inappropriate teenager anyway."

     "It wouldn't hurt to make an effort," Canada whispered. He turned and looked at America's shirt, really seeing it for the first time. His breath caught in a gasp.

     "What?" Alfred asked in an irritated tone.

     "What are you _wearing_?!" Canada hissed, his eyes wide, pointing at Alfred's t-shirt.

     "What?" America looked confused. "A t-shirt, I know Mattie, _I know_."

     Seeing Matthew's open mouthed stare and point as his brother shook his head, his lips moving wordlessly, Alfred's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Looking down at his shirt, his own blue eyes went wide in fear when he realized exactly what shirt he had thrown on in his haste this morning. It was a shirt that he had purchased online, sort of as a joke, but not really.

     A plain grey t-shirt with black lettering, pronouncing the words "I Love The U.K." Multiple hearts surrounded the statement, all of which were colored in a print of the Union Jack. It was his guilty pleasure shirt. Alfred wore the tee _only_ in the privacy of his own home when he knew that no one else would be around. It made him think of England and it made him feel better when he got to missing the older country.

     And it was going to make him the laughing stock of the _world_!

     "Oh no!" America cried. "What the fuck am I going to do?"

     Canada stared at him with a mixture of horror and pity. "I have no idea, sorry."

     Latching his hands onto Canada's shoulders America gave his brother a small shake and pleaded, "Switch shirts with me!"

     "No way!" Canada's voice raised a few notches, which was still quiet and he uncharacteristically shoved his brother's hands off of his arms. "I'm not wearing that!"

     "I _can't_ wear it!" America shouted. Desperately grabbing at Canada's tie, the two blonde brothers began to wrestle angrily with each other; America trying to remove Canada's jacket and Canada fighting tooth and nail to keep clothed. "Come on Mattie! You gotta help me!" America was ashamed that his voice was shrieking.

     "No!" Canada's shout matched America's in volume and echoed through the hall.

     Both brothers were surprised at the Canadian's vehemence, causing their impromptu wresting match to cease. However, their surprise soon turned to embarrassment with the realization that the conference room's open door had allowed all of the countries present to hear Matthew's outburst. Slowly turning their heads in unison, the North American brothers saw that the doorway of the meeting room was full of the rest of the nations staring in astonishment at the odd scene before them.

     Canada and America straightened, removing their hands from each other, Alfred grabbing the lapels of his bomber jacket and wrapping them tightly over his chest to hide the offending t-shirt. Both blondes were blushing, but for once, America looked to be the more self-conscious of the two.

     "Sorry about that," Canada's voice returned to his normal tone.

     America made a non-committal sound and lifted one of his shoulders stiffly.

     "What's going on Mattheiu?" France arched his eyebrows and looked to his former charge for an answer. No one had heard Canada speak so loudly since 1915 after the Battle of Ypres.

     "Nothing!" Canada squeaked. "Let's get started with the meeting."

     None of the assembled nations moved. From the back of the group, Russia tilted his head and smiled at the North Americans saying, "Is little Canada sure he fine?"

     The entire world stared at Ivan, who never spoke much at conferences and who was oddly enough, referring to Canada as "little." While Canada certainly was smaller than Ivan (who wasn't?) he was still larger than everyone else there. Russia simply kept smiling and watching American and Canada in a very intense way until Canada assured him that, 'yes he was fine.' Russia nodded and said "I don't like it when my friend is sad."

     "No, I'm good, thanks Ivan," Canada smiled and glanced at his brother.

     "What happened to your face Amerika?" Russia tilted his head innocently and pointed to the twin black eyes the superpower was sporting. "It looks good."

     England shifted awkwardly and America's lips began to curl into a mean looking sneer. "Friends?" America snarled at his brother. "With Russia? Seriously dude?"

     "Yes Al," Canada hissed back. "Russia and I are friends. We play hockey together. He's very nice—to _me_. Deal with it." In a slightly louder voice directed at the other countries, Canada smiled and said, "Let's go inside. We're all good here—promise."

     The other countries grumbled, but began to head back into the conference room and take their usual seats. Arthur stood off to the side, arms folded over his chest. After the display last night, and this shouting match occurring in the hall, he was beginning to wonder if something was very wrong with Alfred. The young blonde was not acting like himself and it was going a bit beyond simple embarrassment.

     Waiting until Alfred was passing him, Arthur reached out his hand and lightly touched America's arm. "Alfred," he began.

     Shrugging his arm away from England, America coiled onto himself and wouldn't meet Arthur's eyes. "Don't touch me," he growled.

     " _Alfred_ ," England was a bit taken aback by the young country's hostile tone. "Look, I'm sorry I left this morning without you, I didn't think that you would want to see me."

     America stared straight ahead unblinking.

     "We really _do_ need to talk," England insisted. "About last night—"

     Alfred's face blushed even deeper and he stomped away from the green-eyed nation without a single word, leaving England blinking and speechless.

* * *

     The meeting was uncomfortable for every nation involved. Germany dealt with the brunt of the tension due to his self-appointed leadership position. After today, however, Ludwig seriously considered handing over the reins to another country. He always thought that if he were to step down as the un-official group leader that England would take over, but now the German man wasn't so sure that would be a good idea.

     Arthur had spent the entire meeting fidgeting in his seat, an action usually reserved for America. And Alfred had forsaken his usual restlessness for staring blankly ahead of him as though he were in a state of shock. It disturbed Germany greatly. Usually the two nations were so busy building their obvious sexual tension during meetings that they caused the discussions to veer off track. Today though, neither country seemed as though they were mentally present at all, or that they even cared about the outcome of the conference.

     America had started off on a sour note by arriving almost two and a half hours late, which irked Germany to the point of a migraine. Once the host country had arrived, he took his place behind the podium, with his bomber jacked zipped up to his neck in an almost comical fashion. Ludwig had taken an extra four minutes to scream in a mixture of German and English at Alfred for delaying the meeting and inconveniencing the other countries before he slumped in his seat, red-faced and puffing. Waving his hand towards the American who had taken the lecture in silence, Ludwig barked out "Get on with it!"

     Alfred stuttered and looked uncomfortable, pulling at the collar of his jacket before launching into an impassioned, yet ill-prepared speech on standardized testing. Any time that the young blonde looked up and saw England staring pointedly at anything but him, he would trip over his words and spend a few seconds muttering incoherently under his breath.

     France found it almost endearing and thoroughly entertaining. He was now one hundred percent convinced that his dear friend's affection was most definitely returned. If only the two stubborn fools could see it for themselves. Glancing to the side, Francis saw that Canada was looking back and forth between America and England with a somewhat worried look on his face. _'This is a new development,'_ France stroked his beard in contemplation. _'Perhaps little Amerique has his own confidante?'_

     After Alfred had managed to stutter through his presentation, Germany announced that despite their late start to the day, they were going to break for lunch. He glared at the young American who was slouching in his seat and not making eye contact with anyone. Setting a time of one half hour to find something to eat, most of the nations wandered out of the conference room in search of sustenance.

     Immediately, France made a beeline toward Canada and slid his arm through the younger man's, who looked at the Frenchman in surprise.

     "Um, France," Canada blinked his violet eyes at his former guardian with surprise. "What do you want?"

     "We need to talk, Mattheiu," Francis pulled the younger man out of the room without a backward glance.

     Both England and America watched the odd pair leave, England's brow furrowed in suspicion and America sliding his eyes nervously toward his brother and the attractive blonde latching on to him. The two French speaking nations going off together wasn't incredibly odd on its own, but both of the English speaking countries had noticed the glances toward them during the meeting.

     Alfred wasn't worried that Matthew would tell on him, his brother was loyal; but he _was_ worried about what France was up to. Arthur, on the other hand was most _definitely_ troubled at what France and Canada were up to, but he had a priority to try and mend things with America.

     Alfred came first.

     England was all set to try out the first step of France's convoluted "Make America Love Me" plan. Arthur was going to invite the younger nation to a quick lunch and maybe they could try talking about the previous night—get all the awkwardness behind them, leaving the way clear for England to make his confession.

     Surprisingly, America had remained slouched in his chair, and the young man snorted and rolled his eyes in a decidedly 'English' way as he realized that a half hour was not enough time for him to go home and change; and that he would be forced to keep wearing his ridiculous t-shirt for the rest of the day. Wallowing in the horror that his life had become in the last two days, Alfred continued to sit at the conference table, arms crossed over his chest and not moving.

     Arthur was concerned that Alfred hadn't jumped up to go running out the door at the mention of lunch and he kept throwing furtive glances at America as he slowly gathered up his belongings.

     Taking a small step towards the younger blonde, England cleared his throat before beginning with, "Alfred, would you like to—"

     "No." America cut him off and refused to look up at the British nation.

     "But Alfred," England tried again. "You have to eat, love."

     "I'm not hungry," America shifted in his chair so that he was turned slightly away from England, still refusing to meet the other man's eyes. "And don't call me 'love,' you don't mean it!" America snapped. Arthur opened his mouth in shock at the younger nation's rude tone and his _completely_ untrue statement, but Alfred spoke again before England could counter. Muttering, America slid a sharp glance toward England and said, "Just go Arthur. Leave me alone."

     England's heart twisted. America's voice was low and there was a measure of hurt in his tone and words. He wanted to reach out and gather his precious America in his arms and hold him, tell him that it was all going to be fine; but his stoic English pride wouldn't allow it. So Arthur huffed, and turned on his heel and stomped loudly out of the room, slamming the door soundly. It was childish and something more suited to America, but England was furious and hurt and embarrassed and so many other things that he just needed to get away. If Alfred didn't want his help or company, then he wouldn't offer it again!

     Who was he kidding? Of course he would. England knew that he would come running whenever America called. Well, obviously France's idea was shit—what was he even thinking taking advice from The Frog in the first place? From now on he was just going to try and fix this problem with America in his own way—which would mostly be denial.

     Shaking his head in frustration and setting his mouth in a hard line, Arthur made his way toward the lobby and pushed himself out into the sunlight. He wasn't very hungry either. Perhaps a walk would be in his best interest. He could clear his head and maybe when the afternoon portion of the meeting began things would start to look up.

     Today was shaping up to be worse than yesterday.

* * *

     "So you're telling me that the affection is returned?" France questioned, the excitement pouring out of his voice as he clapped his hands together.

     "Yeah," Canada mumbled. He felt a bit bad about betraying Alfred's trust but this whole situation was getting beyond control and it was affecting business and the rest of the world in a negative way. If England had seen fit to confide in France then maybe the two of them teaming up to help was the right thing to do.

     Besides, Canada really wanted someone else to take control of the whole thing—like, a grownup. _Not_ that _he_ wasn't a grownup—he just didn't want to be responsible for screwing up his brother's life. If France was involved and things went sour, Canada was pretty sure that everyone would blame France for the shoddy outcome. Canada might seem meek and content to the other countries, but he had learned some excellent tricks of manipulation from his brother, and even France himself. And if it all turned out great, then he could just be happy for his brother. There was nothing wrong with thinking ahead to protect oneself—no one wanted to be on the bad side of a superpower.

     "Al's been in love with Arthur for years," Canada continued, nibbling on his BLT, the extra treat of _maple_ bacon tasting fantastic to the young blonde. "He doesn't want anyone to know—thinks that everyone will make fun of him. Especially England."

     "But why?" France crossed his legs. The two men had found a quaint little park down the street and were settled comfortably on a wooden bench near the pathway, deconstructing the entire saga from each of their points of view. "Amerique has no reason to think that Angleterre would make fun of him for being in love."

     Canada snorted, putting as much sarcasm behind the noise as he could muster. "Really?" He took another bite of his sandwich and stared Francis down. When the Frenchman didn't continue with his observation, Canada swallowed and began, "Arthur thinks that having emotions is a flaw. He once spent _two hours_ explaining to me and Al how stupid 'Titanic' was because he heard us singing 'My Heart Will Go On' into one of those karaoke machines that Japan gives people for holiday gifts."

     France pointed at him, "To be fair, that is a ridiculous and somewhat annoying song."

     Canada's violet eyes narrowed. "Don't talk smack on Celine," he hissed.

     France was a bit disturbed at how vehement the younger man was, so he quickly bowed his head and said, "My apologies mon ami."

     Giving a single, sharp nod, Canada continued. " _Anyway,_ if Arthur has told you that he loves Al—"

     "He has."

     "—And Al has told me that he loves Arthur," Canada waved his sandwich in the air. "All we have to do is get them to confess to each other and—"

     "Non," France interrupted. "I think, after last night, it would not be well received. Angleterre would think any confession from Amerique a cruel hoax."

     Canada sighed in defeat, knowing France was correct. "And Al would think Arthur was just being an ass and making fun of him."

     "Oui." The two men glanced at each other.

     "What should we do?" Canada went back to his sandwich.

     Stroking his trimmed beard, France smiled harshly. "I think it is time to stir the pot, Mattheiu." Grinning as he turned toward the Canadian and slid his arm around the younger man's shoulder, Francis asked, "Are you willing to do whatever it takes to make sure your brother ends up happily in England's _loving_ arms?"

     Canada smiled back and licked his lips as he contemplated the Frenchman's statement.

     "It could mean that Amerique may hate us for a little while," France admitted. "But it would be all for the sake of l'amour in the long run—your brother's happiness…"

     Nodding and allowing a smirk to spread across his face, Canada popped the last of his BLT in his mouth. "I'm in. Say, Francis…you didn't happen to notice what Al was wearing today, did you?"


	6. Highest Humiliation

     Being left alone in the conference room, America had pushed open all of the windows and taken the opportunity of his solitude to unzip his bomber jacket. The room was horribly hot, the combination of the beginnings of summer and a large group of people in a small space causing the temperature to rocket to uncomfortable levels. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage the finish out the day with his jacket on, but he would die before he took it off and let anyone see what he was wearing—especially England. He didn't think he could take the humiliation. Making a total ass of himself in front of Arthur last night was _more_ than enough to last him…for the rest of eternity.

     Standing at the window, and allowing the slight breeze to blow over him, ruffling his blond hair, America closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay. Nothing could possibly get any worse. He was a Super Power damn it—and he was not going to be defeated by a stupid shirt, or a lost phone, or leather chaps, or an inconvenient boner, or especially a beautiful Brit!

     He was so lost in his pep talk, that he didn't notice that the rest of the nations had trickled back into the conference room and had begun taking their seats. The half hour lunch break was over.

     Without thinking, Alfred whipped around, and forgot to close the zipper on his bomber jacket, leaving bits and pieces of his shirt exposed. Of course, the person standing closest to him was none other than France. Even without Canada's hint, the Frenchman could spot a fashion faux-paux a mile away, his sharp blue eyes immediately latched on to the American's shirt.

     Stifling a smirk, Francis waved his hand airily in the direction of Alfred and spoke loud enough for all of the nations to hear. "Mon Dieu Alfred, what in the world is that?"

     "Huh?" America was confused, still forgetting that his jacket was open. For the first time today he wasn't drowning in his own sweat and the idea of covering up was the last thing on his mind.

     "Amerique?" France repeated his name and cocked an eyebrow. "What is on your shirt? Do I see a 'U' and a 'K'?"

     Suddenly remembering, and seeing all of the countries turn their eyes toward his chest, Alfred went ghostly pale and then bright red in a matter of seconds. He grabbed the jacket and snapped it shut. "It's nothing!" America's voice was high enough to almost be a scream. He pulled the jacket over his chest even tighter.

     Germany placed his head in his hands and grunted. "It's bad enough that he's wearing an athletic shirt to a meeting, do we really have to waste time bothering to know what it says?"

     "Oui," France smiled, pressing the issue. "I would very much like to know what young Amerique's _inappropriate_ shirt has on it."

     Standing near the door, England glanced between France and America curiously. He looked over at Canada at the same moment that America slid his gaze to his brother. The young blonde had finally made the connection between France's insistence and the fact that Canada had left for the lunch break with the Frenchman earlier.

     America glanced over at Canada with his eyes narrowed. "You told him didn't you Mattie!" His face contorted into an angry grimace.

     "What? No!" Canada took a small step back. Pissed off America was not something that anyone wanted to see. It usually ended bloody and painfully. Canada had a quick thought that perhaps he had agreed to France's harebrained scheme in the heat of the moment, but it was too late to back out now.

     America advanced on Canada with a twisted look on his handsome features as he snarled, "What the hell Mattie?"

     "America," Germany said warningly, as he slowly stood.

     "I didn't tell him about your stupid shirt Al!" Canada clung to his lie.

     France was also beginning to suspect that maybe they had pushed poor Alfred a bit too far, and he attempted to subdue the American as best he could—with words. "He did not tell me about the shirt," France confirmed, as America placed his hands on Canada's jacket. "I just saw a bit of it and I was curious Amerique. What does it say?"

     "It's none of your business," America spat at France. "What else did you tell him Matt?" Alfred's fists bunched into his brother's lapels and he gave the younger man a sharp shake.

     "America!" England shouted angrily. "What in the world has gotten into you!?" The blonde Brit stepped forward and grabbed onto America's own sleeve, trying to place himself in between the two brothers. "You are acting ridiculous!"

     "Back off _Arthur_ ," America glared at his crush, but didn't remove his hands from Canada. Suddenly from behind him, he felt two strong hands snake around his chest and pull his jacket open.

     Only two nations would have the stones to pull a stunt like that, and Arthur was in front of him which meant _Russia._ Pressed up against the man behind him, America sucked in a breath and gritted his teeth, ready to turn around and release the beginning of Cold War Part Deux on Ivan when he saw that the entire room was gaping at him.

     "There," Russia smiled, unaware that America was about to throttle him and that the rest of the world was in shock. "Now we can all see Amerika's shirt."

     Faint chuckles gave way to louder giggles and then full on laughter as the assembled countries took in the "I Love The U.K." emblazoned across Alfred's chest. France was hiding his smirk behind his hand, but most of the other nations were just full on laughing and pointing—especially Romano and Prussia. Even Germany was attempting to hold back a small chuckle.

     The only nation who wasn't thoroughly amused by the message on America's shirt was England. He was simply staring at Alfred with a look of pity and confusion and a small bit of hope, his mouth open in an 'O' of surprise.

     America's face went as red as the stripes in his flag and his just stood, arms at his side, letting the laughter of the other countries wash over him.

     "Amerika," Ivan tilted his head, "Are you loving Mr. England?"

     That caused another round of boisterous laughter from the assembled countries. France and Canada shot a glance at each other, the former victorious and the latter a bit guilty. So far, so good.

     America's face was hot and he was actually beginning to feel tears pricking at his eyes. His round blue eyes found Arthur's shocked green and the two men simply stared at one another as the rest of the nations continued to make comments and giggle at the situation.

     After what felt like hours to Alfred, Germany managed to control his slight chuckles enough to clap his hands together forcefully and announce that they really should continue with the meeting, since they were already behind schedule. As everyone took their seats, America and England still remained motionless, staring at one another.

     Finally Arthur let out a breath and asked quietly, "Is this some kind of joke, Alfred?" Although, deep down, he knew that it wasn't. The young nation looked absolutely broken and horrified. If last night was embarrassing for America, then this moment was obviously mortifying torture.

     America blinked, pulled his jacket closed once more, and stepped toward his seat, moving past England. Arthur lifted his hand and placed it on Alfred's arm as he passed saying "America, please." He didn't know what to do to help America, he just knew that seeing Alfred go through this much embarrassment, was torture for him as well. He wanted to do something to make the younger man feel better, but he just didn't know how. And there was a prick of hope, a feeling that settled somewhere in his stomach that _maybe_ …just maybe, America may love him back. Why else would have that ridiculous shirt if it _wasn't_ a joke?

     "America," England tried again. "Alfred."

     "No!" America jerked his shoulder away from England and twisted sharply turning his back toward the older man. "I can't Arthur," he whispered after a pause. "I can't do this right now."

     Pursing his lips, the England nodded and silently turned and took his seat. When Alfred sank into the chair next to him, neither man looked at the other. They both simply stared straight ahead lost in their own minds. England wondering, _hoping_ that maybe there was a chance. America trying to blink back burning tears and wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

     Despite the occasional snarky remarks at America's expense, the conference continued as planned.

     The rest of the meeting was uneventful.

* * *

     The ride home after the meeting was as awkward and tense as expected. The two men sat on opposite sides of the limo, staring out their respective windows and not speaking to one another. They seemed to be playing the game of sliding glances and always finding the other man looking away. But in reality, they were both acutely aware of the other's presence. England was just glad that America had driven home with him and not insisted on taking his own car back to the house. Each of them knew that the younger blonde was in no condition to drive at the moment.

     Both men seemed to share an unspoken agreement that the events of the day would not be brought up—at least for the time being. Arthur knew that he himself needed to process what had happened since he had set foot on American soil; and Alfred needed to sort through exactly what he was going to say to get out of this mess and still be a hero.

     England indulged in a glass of straight rum and even America poured himself a tumbler of bourbon, which was somewhat out of character for the young country. Alfred didn't drink very often, as alcohol seemed to have little effect on the nation, so he tended to just steer clear. Tonight though, America was hoping that the stiff glass of liquor would have _some_ effect on him—he needed to drown out the events of the last twenty-four hours. England always seemed to go running for the liquor cabinet after a bad day, so America was sure that if he drank enough, it was bound to help. He thought it was a solid plan.

     America made it through an entire bottle.

     It didn't help much.

* * *

     Upon returning home, the two nations silently trudged up to America's front door, and England couldn't help but notice that despite Alfred's completely broken look, that the light of the setting sun made the boy look absolutely gorgeous. He wanted to reach out and touch the younger man—brush his cheek and tell him that it was all going to work out. That he would do _anything_ to make Alfred smile again. But he didn't. Arthur simply took a moment to gaze at Alfred before reaching in his pocket and removing the key he had found the night before. America just stared blankly at the door, making no movement.

     Unlocking the front door, Arthur pushed it open and gently placed his hand on the small of America's back, in an attempt to guide the shell-shocked younger nation inside. He frowned at the visible flinch America gave when he felt Arthur's fingers graze his back.

     "Come along Alfred," England pressed his fingers into America, pushing the tall blonde forward. He was beginning to become incredibly unnerved by Alfred's behavior. America took a few small steps and walked into the house. He immediately made for the stairs and began to climb up them toward the second floor. He was halfway up before England had locked the door and turned to call after him. "Alfred, we really _do_ need to talk," the Brit spoke with insistence.

     America gave no response. He simply climbed the stairs and disappeared. England heard the door to his bedroom shut with a firm click. Angrily huffing out a breath, Arthur furrowed his eyebrows and glared up at the ceiling as though he could see through the floor into America's room. His look was full of venom. He had been patient, and he had allowed the younger nation to retreat last night, but this entire fiasco had gone on long enough.

     Dropping his briefcase on the floor with a thud, Arthur yanked at his tie, loosening it as he ascended the stairs. Each step made the British nation feel angrier—he shouldn't have to be chasing after America in such a foolish fashion. When he got on the plane yesterday morning, he never imagined that the week with Alfred would turn out to be such a disaster. But he also never thought that he would be so close to _possibility_. They needed to hash this out—sooner the better, as far as Arthur was concerned.

     Pausing for a single moment when he reached America's room, England steeled his courage and balled his pale hand into a fist, slamming it against the hard wood of Alfred's bedroom door. In a display unlike anything he would normally condone, England repeatedly banged his fist against the door and began to yell. "Alfred! This is absolutely ridiculous! Open this door at _once_! I am not going to spend another night in this horrid silence—Open up! Alfred! America! Damn it! Open this bloody door before I break it down and I swear to you, I _will break it down_!"

     The door swung open in a sudden movement and Arthur only just stopped his fist in time before it connected with Alfred's face. The younger blonde flinched a bit, remembering the pain of the broken nose he had suffered the night before.

     England gasped. He had only half expected America to listen to him. Usually Alfred did whatever he damn well pleased and Arthur knew that the chances of the American staying locked in his room for the night was a real possibility. But Alfred had relented. Arthur found himself at a loss for words—he hadn't really thought about what to say to the man he loved.

     America didn't say anything. He simply stood in the door, his hand resting on the wall, out of sight, his head dipped down and his eyes fixed on England's shoes. He had removed his jacket and was standing before Arthur in only his jeans and the ridiculous t-shirt declaring his love of the United Kingdom.

     Arthur licked his lips and let out a small sigh. "Alfred," he breathed. "What is going on, love?" America frowned at the endearment, but England pressed on. He reached his hand out and cupped the younger man's cheek, as he had wanted to do earlier. "You've been acting so strange—between last night and then—"

     "Jeez!" America finally spoke, pulling his face away from England's cold hand. "Do we have to talk about last night? Really?"

     "Yes America," England snapped. He was beginning to lose his patience with the younger man. "Yes, we _really_ do. What in the world were you wearing! And why did you attack me like that? And why were you wandering around in the dark?" All of the questions that had been building in Arthur's mind since the previous night came pouring out. He just kept rambling on and shooting questions that he almost didn't realized when America lifted his hand and placed a single finger on his lips, silencing him.

     "You're right," America said quietly. "We do need to talk about…everything." He pulled his finger away from England's lips as though they burned him.

     Sensing the younger man's hesitation, Arthur reached out and grasped Alfred's bicep, and stepped toward the taller blonde. "How about we go downstairs," he suggested. "I'll make you some hot cocoa. We can sit down like grown men and discuss this in a neutral setting that isn't your horrifically messy bedroom." England raised an eyebrow at America in an unspoken question. _'Are you all right with this love?'_

     Alfred nodded once and for the first time since Arthur had arrived, he let a small smile ghost the corners of his mouth. "Hot chocolate would be great."

     Smiling, England nodded and let go of America's arm. "I'll go get the kettle boiling and let you change."

     "Nah," America took a step out into the hallway. "I can't really be embarrassed about my clothes after all this," he gestured awkwardly at the offending t-shirt. "Besides," he ducked his head sheepishly, "I really like this shirt."

     Arthur's green eyes went wide with surprise and he simply blinked and said "Oh," before turning and walking downstairs. He could hear Alfred trailing behind him.

     The two men entered the kitchen and America took a seat at the kitchen table and watched Arthur putter around, setting the kettle on the stove and pulling out mugs. He smiled a bit when he saw England pull out the Big Ben mug that he loved so much and set it down next to Alfred's own favorite cup. It was the little things—like England knowing which mug he preferred—that made America wonder if maybe he wasn't the only one with these feelings.

     They stayed in silence as England prepared the warm drinks, making sure to place exactly four marshmallows into Alfred's mug before setting it down in front of the younger man. "There you are love," he smiled and affectionately ran his fingers through America's hair—a gesture that was familiar to them both.

     Lifting the mug to his lips, America took a deep drink of his hot chocolate and let out a sigh. Chocolate always helped. The drink had a faintly burnt taste, but America didn't care—England had made it, so he loved it. He looked over and saw England drinking from his own mug. "I thought for sure you'd have tea," America started.

     England smiled faintly. "I usually would," he looked directly at America. "But this isn't too terrible."

     The silence descended once again until England set his mug down with a click and cleared his throat. "Look Alfred—"

     "England, I—"

     Both men spoke in unison. Stifled laughter and England waved his hand in a gesture, encouraging America to continue.

     "No, you," America's voice hitched. He wasn't ready…not just yet.

     Sighing, Arthur looked into Alfred's eyes with concern. "I'm worried about you Alfred. I understand that for some reason, you didn't receive my messages and so you didn't know that I was arriving early, but…" Arthur trailed off, not quite sure how to delicately bring up what had happened last night. He decided that there wasn't a really good way to say it so he just plowed along. "But what on _earth_ were you doing?"

     America became very interested in the marshmallows floating in his hot chocolate and felt the beginnings of a blush flash across his cheeks. He mumbled something incoherent under his breath.

     "I mean," England continued, finally hitting his stride. "You were dressed up like a ruddy porn star, wandering around in the darkness with everything all out there—my god boy—what is going on with you?"

     The blush on America's face deepened and he mumbled again, shaking his head, poking a finger at one of the marshmallows as it bobbed in his cup.

     "I'm sorry," England blinked and leaned forward across the table. "What was that?"

     "You," Alfred whispered, not looking up.

     "Me?" Arthur's eyebrows creased together. "What do you mean, me?" Now he was definitely confused. Why in the world would he have anything to do with American wandering around in that incredibly _hot_ cowboy get-up?

     "You," America stated again, albeit slightly louder. "I was wearing that because," he glanced up and met Arthur's concerned gaze. "You make me nervous."

     England blinked. "I…make you nervous," he began, and America nodded. "I make you nervous and so you got dressed up in a porno costume?"

     "It's not a porno costume!" America shouted.

     England simply raised a brow and looked skeptical.

     "Okay," America acquiesced. "It was my actual clothes from my Wild West days, but I lost the pants and so yeah, I guess it was kind of porny."

     "Kind of?" England's eyes bugged out. "Dear boy, your cock was out!"

     America blushed even deeper and his breath hitched. "I lost my pants!" he insisted again.

     "Fine," Arthur waved his hand and took another sip of his chocolate. "You lost your pants, fine. I just don't understand why you were wearing your old cowboy clothes in the first place and what it has to do with me making you nervous."

     It was now or never, America knew that. He just had to jump in with both feet and tell England about his stupid ritual. Honestly, at this point, what did he have to lose? In the    past twenty-four hours he had embarrassed himself more than he thought possible in front of England—and the rest of the world. He'd attacked the man he loved wearing not much besides leather and a boner; he'd shown up at a world meeting wearing a shirt declaring his love for the United Kingdom; and he'd spent the past day fighting off un-heroic tears and acting like a total loser. His reputation was probably shot at this point—what was the worst that could happen, really?

     Despite his apprehension, America knew, deep down, that after the Revolutionary War, there wasn't much he could do to make England leave. He would always be there, ruffling his hair, making him hot chocolate, calling him 'love.' America was confident that England wouldn't leave him. He just wasn't sure if England would return the feelings that he had fought so hard to conceal.

     "America?" England placed his hand over Alfred's and looked pleadingly at the younger nation. "Please? You can tell me anything, love."

     It was the final 'love' that did it for America. He looked deep into Arthur's gorgeous green eyes and all of a sudden found himself telling England _everything_. He told him how he had loved him since World War I and how he didn't know what to say or do around the older man. He explained that he was constantly afraid that he would do something to push Arthur away. He confessed to his habit of 'rehearsing' in front of the mirror. And he felt a prick of tears well up as he gazed at Arthur, grasping the shorter blonde's hands as he finally said, "England…I love you!"

     Throughout America's heartfelt and uncomfortable confession, England had remained silent. When America had finally spoken those three little words, he remained quiet and simply stared at the younger man with his eyebrows pressed together. After a few moments of silence, America began to shift in his chair, and he started to pull his fingers away from England's grasp. Realizing what the younger man was thinking, England finally found his voice and blew out a harsh breath and clutched American's hands in his own tightly.

     "You bloody cunting wanker," he said softly.

     America's face fell even further, his mouth falling open in dismay. "I'm sorry Arthur," he tried to wriggle his hands away but England's grip tensed.

     "You should be sorry," Arthur managed. America frowned. He could feel the tears coming, and was angered to think about how many times he had come close to crying since yesterday. This time, he didn't think that he would be able to hold them back. He didn't want England to see him cry.

     "You should be bloody sorry," England said again. "Decades Alfred," the green-eyed Brit whispered. "We could have been loving each other _together_ for decades. But instead we're both bloody stupid prats who didn't have the bullocks to say anything!"

     "Yeah," America muttered. "Wait," the blue-eyed blonde looked up in surprise. "Did you say… _loving each other_?"

     A faint smile crossed England's lips and he shook his head admonishingly. "Yes, you git," he breathed. "I love you too—have for years."

     America's face broke out into a true smile—wide and perfect and so bright that England couldn't help but give a rare smile of his own back.

     "Seriously?" Alfred shouted.

     England didn't respond with words. He pushed his chair backwards, roughly enough that it clattered to the floor and he grabbed Alfred's cheeks between both of his hands and he lowered his face to capture the American's mouth with his own. Their lips met, softly and delicately; almost chaste. England brushed his mouth over America's, holding the younger man's face in his palms, his thumbs rubbing lightly on the perfect skin of America's cheeks. As their lips touched, Arthur lowered himself into Alfred's lap and curled his legs around the larger man. For his part, Alfred immediately hooked his hands around England's waist and pulled the Brit flush to his chest. They gasped into each other's mouths as they slowly pulled back to look into each other's eyes.

     "Really Artie?" America grinned. "You really love me?"

     "More than anything," England's voice was low and breathless. "Alfred," he practically purred America's name, giving the younger nation shivers. "You mean the world to me." America's breath caught at England's words. But the island nation wasn't finished. "You are everything, love. All that I do, I do for _you_ , to make sure that you're happy—I always have. Always will, love."

     With that, Arthur pulled Alfred toward him again and pressed their lips together, this time opening their mouths to let their tongues to thoroughly explore. The kiss deepened, their breath coming in shallow gasps as they tried to remain connected as long as possible. It wasn't long before both men noticed the other's erections beginning to press insistently against one another. America pulled away first, panting, his blue eyes sparkling. This had turned out so much better than his wildest fantasies—England _loved_ him back!

     "Does this mean," America puffed, "that we're together now? Are we boyfriends? Are we dating? Is this too soon?" The younger man couldn't seem to contain his rambling.

     England chuckled lightly and pressed a quick kiss to Alfred's lips. "We've waited years already love," Arthur said. "Why should we wait any longer?"

     "You're my boyfriend," Alfred grinned. "Mine."

     "And you're mine, love." Arthur smiled back. "Its rather late. What do you say we go to bed?"

     "Together?" America looked a bit nervous.

     England put two fingers under America's chin and looked directly at him. "We don't have to do anything you're uncomfortable with Alfred. We can just go to sleep if you wish."

     "Oh," America said. "It's not that—I—I want to do _that_ …with you—it's just…" he trailed off and bit his lip. "You know what, its fine. Let's go to bed."

     Looking a bit confused, Arthur slid off of Alfred's lap and held out his hand, allowing the American to take it as he stood. Standing on his toes, England leaned up and pressed another soft kiss to America's cheek, causing the younger man to blush. "Come on darling," Arthur pulled him gently toward the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I really like America and Russia's rivalry as being a real rivalry for America and sort of a joke for Russia. It amuses me that Ivan is so adorable and childlike and that Alfred is so egotistical and immature that they can have interactions where America is 100% serious that he is mad and Russia is just "you're so funny Amerika" because he doesn't take it seriously. More like Ivan thinks they're kind of friends who tease each other and America is like "No. No we are not friends. No." But they still kind of are. Anyway...
> 
> FINALLY! Took you crazy kids long enough to confess that you're absolutely CRAZY about each other. I didn't realize that it would take them this long. This story was supposed to be much shorter than it has become. But Alfred had too many mishaps that he needed to go through and Arthur was kind of dragging his feet.


	7. Carnal Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sexy, smutty, porny goodness part of the story. It is a bit more explicit than I have posted before. If you read "UnBEARable Slight" it is similar to the UKUS epilogue but...MORE.

     The two men made their way up the staircase to Alfred's room, their hands running along each other's bodies, lips grazing, as though they wanted to maintain a constant contact. Stumbling through the doorway, they didn't bother to close the bedroom door behind them and they soon found themselves falling as one onto Alfred's bed. Their legs tangled around one another as their hands continued their own exploration.

     America's hand ran along England's loosened tie and pulled the knot free, flinging the silk accessory across the room. "I want you so much Arthur."

     Arthur's breath caught and he slid his own chilly hands underneath Alfred's novelty shirt, gliding his fingers over the other man's taut stomach muscles. "I want you too." Reluctantly pulling away from the hot skin of America's torso, England gripped the bottom of the shirt and pulled it up over Alfred's head. "As much as I _adore_ the sentiment expressed, you really need to be naked, love."

     Chuckling, Alfred grinned and tossed the shirt aside, immediately placing his own hands on Arthur's suit jacket and sliding the expensive material off of the smaller man's shoulders. "You too babe," America slid his body over England's, trapping the smaller man beneath him as they continued to kiss.

     The jacket joined the various other garments littering the floor of America's room as Alfred began to fumble at Arthur's shirt buttons. "Sorry," the younger man apologized. "I'm so damn nervous. My hands are sweating!"

     "Charming," England muttered under his breath before he could stop himself. He knew that after recent events, America needed reassurance that he was still the great and powerful United States. And as the nation who loved him, England was more than willing to show America how wonderful he was—he just had to curb his natural grumpy and sarcastic nature. To be honest, Arthur was looking forward to boosting the young country's ego. Humming and pressing his lips to the underside of Alfred's jaw, England feathered kisses along America's neck. "You have nothing to be nervous about—you're perfect," the older man whispered encouragingly.

     Removing Arthur's dress shirt, Alfred began to work on the island nation's trousers, sliding the leather belt buckle apart and flicking the button open. He took his time with the zipper, making sure that they maintained eye contact as he slid Arthur's fly open and finally cupped the older man through his boxers.

     They both gasped at the touch, England stirred into America's palm and he groaned as Alfred's fingers began to lightly stroke the outline of his cock. "Yes," Arthur hissed. He pushed his hips up toward Alfred and ground himself into his boyfriend's palm. Breaking through the haze of pleasure, Arthur used one hand to unbutton America's pants and had the denim pooling around the taller man's ankles before Alfred even knew what was happening.

     Eager to get a second look at the preview from last night, England's eyes darted down toward America's crotch and the mood was instantly broken. While Alfred's tight boxer briefs fit him impeccably, the design on them was rather distracting and Arthur found himself wrinkling his nose and staring in confusion.

     "Good god Alfred," England gaped at the younger man's choice in undergarments.

     The blood drained from America's face and the boy went as pale as Prussia. He pushed himself back onto his ankles, still straddling Arthur's legs but trying to gain some distance between them. "Oh man," America whined.

     "What in the world?" England reached out a single finger as though he was planning on poking America's thigh.

     " _This_ is why I was a little…weird…about going to bed with you," Alfred's face began to pink and he batted away England's outstretched hand. "Like I told Mattie, I _literally_ just pulled on the first clean things I could find this morning." He waited for England to make another insulting comment but the other man remained silent. "I swear, Artie," America pleaded, "If I had known that today would end up with us naked in bed together, then I would have _definitely_ taken the time to put on like, black silk or at least something in a solid color."

     Arthur continued to stare at his lover's boxer briefs. They were absolutely ridiculous. What grown man would be caught dead wearing neon coloured pants adorned with cartoon renditions of burgers, fries, and hot dogs? "Those are the most _un-sexy_ pants I've ever seen," England gaped.

     "I like them," America pouted, subtly trying to place his hands over his own crotch in an attempt to hide the embarrassing underwear.

     "Alfred, love, there is _nothing_ attractive about fast food," Arthur insisted, laughing. "I mean, honestly, the only thing worse would be if you had on Disney-themed pants."

     "Awe man," Alfred groaned, as his cheeks reddened. He _did_ own some Disney underwear. America made a mental note to hide all of his boxer briefs from England, as he continued to blush uncontrollably. "I can't handle any more laughing at my expense today."

     England stroked his young lover's chest and smiled at him, his laughter gone. "I know darling." Arthur reached up to pat Alfred's cheek lightly. "I'm sorry. They're very… _bright_ …like your smile." The Englishman tried to save the situation. "Forgive me, love?"

     Shyly, Alfred lifted his gaze Arthur's and said, "I guess I really have just made total ass of myself this week."

     Pressing his lips against America's firmly, England reassured his boyfriend, "Unfortunate choices in clothing aside, I still love you." He pulled Alfred closer, the younger man falling onto Arthur's chest once again. Their lips met again, as they showered open mouth kisses upon one another. America's breath was coming in short gasps and England was having difficulty controlling himself as well. "Only one thing," England managed between kisses, "to do."

     "Yeah?" Alfred moaned into Arthur. "What's that?"

     "Take them off."

     America's breath caught at the Brit's commanding tone. Sliding off of Arthur, Alfred clambered to his feet at the end of the bed. "Yes sir," the American's eyes widened as he hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband and slowly began to slide the offending boxer briefs down over his erection.

     Finding himself holding his breath as Alfred removed his ridiculous underwear, England actually moaned out loud at the sight of America's cock standing full before him. Without the worry of a bloody nose or the shock of being attacked this time, Arthur took the time to drink in the beautiful sight before him. After a few moments he let out a shuddering breath and pulled his eyes away from the thick, hard cock in front of him. Sliding his green eyes up to gaze into Alfred's blue, England shook his head slowly and smiled saying "My god Alfred, you are gorgeous!"

     America gave an awkward laugh, "Not as gorgeous as you babe."

     "Don't be bloody ridiculous," England scowled. He was all for giving Alfred compliments—the boy's physique was perfection—but he had a hard time taking praise himself.

     Alfred's mouth quirked up in a half smile. "I'm not ridiculous," he insisted. "You are _so_ fucking hot."

     "Watch your mouth," England admonished, but he still blushed and smiled slightly at America's words.

     Shifting toward the end of the bed, Arthur positioned himself in front of Alfred, and gently placed his fingers on the boy's waist. He took his time, tracing the jutting hipbones with his thumbs and slowly coaxing Alfred closer. Leaning in, he placed a single kiss on America's tip, which was already wet.

     Alfred yelped at the contact.

     His hands still grasping America's sides, England opened his mouth and allowed his tongue to circle the head of his lover's prick. Teasing Alfred with his mouth, he concentrated his attentions on the throbbing end as America groaned and cried, his hands bunching into Arthur's blonde hair, pulling just enough to feel good. The noises coming from Alfred were so wonderful, Arthur wanted to see what other sounds his boyfriend could make. Without warning, he enveloped the entire length into his hot mouth, and America screamed.

     Arthur smiled around the cock in his throat, sending a low hum throughout the shaft. Unable to restrain himself, Alfred bucked into Arthur's mouth and immediately pulled back gasping, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

     Releasing Alfred from his mouth, Arthur looked up and ran his hands down his lover's chest like claws, leaving a trail of white in the tan skin. "It's all right, love," he insisted. "I adored it."

     Smirking at the younger man's shocked silence, Arthur lowered his head once again. As he ran his tongue along the underside of America's length, and teased the young country by swallowing his prick whole, England reveled in the desperate noises that America made. When he enveloped the taller man completely and ghosted his fingers over Alfred's sac, the yell that came from his companion was more satisfying that he had ever dreamed. England had spent countless nights imagining what America would taste like, how he would feel, how he would sound—and the island nation knew that his fantasies had fallen short of the magic of reality.

     Releasing his hold on America, England languished back on the bed and allowed himself to enjoy the vision of America standing before him, naked, red and panting. The younger man's eyes were bright and a line of sweat trailed across his forehead.

     "Holy shit England," Alfred gasped.

     England grinned sadistically in response. He hadn't felt this much pleasure from giving a blowjob since the sixteen hundreds. He crooked a single finger toward America in a 'come hither' gesture which had the young man scrambling across his body, and pinning him to the bed.

     Their mouths clashed together violently as they tried to express their growing need. Alfred had become so desperate that he began to mindlessly rut against Arthur, their cocks creating a delicious friction. A spot of wet began to spread across England's silk boxers, which called their attention to the fact that while Alfred was completely nude, Arthur still had his pants open and bunched around his hips.

     England groaned thinking about how long it would take to press the wrinkles out of his expensive trousers. The momentary lapse was pushed from his mind when America gripped the band of both the trousers and his boxers, yanking them off harshly saying "You're not nearly naked enough yet Arthur."

     Stripping the last of their clothing away, Alfred gazed at the slender form of the man beneath him. England was laid out like a gift, on _his_ bed, and it was _not_ a hot dream—this was actually happening. America licked his lips and gazed adoringly at his long-time crush. Arthur was just as hard as he was, despite the fact that he hadn't been the one receiving the sexiest blowjob of all time. He reached down, almost hesitantly toward Arthur and softly placed his hands around England's hot, hard flesh.

     America smiled when he heard England suck in a breath shakily. He took a moment to flick his eyes up to Arthur's face, but his gaze was immediately drawn back down to England's cock in his hand. Rubbing his thumb over the slit, he grinned at the ooze of precum that began to drip out of the other man's prick.

     "You're so hot for me Arthur," America softly squeezed the man below him.

     "Belt up you twat," Arthur panted and pushed his hips up pressing himself hard into America's hand.

     Bending down to capture the smaller man's mouth with his own, America kept his firm grip on England's cock as he began kissing his mouth tenderly. "How do you want to do this?" The taller country's voice shook, as though he was becoming slightly nervous.

     Wrapping his arms tightly around America's neck, England continued to push his hips up into his lover's grip and moaned, "How about you take the lead tonight, love."

     America stopped pressing kisses to England's face as he pulled back and sent a silent question to the older man with his blue eyes. Noticing the hesitation on Alfred's face, Arthur cocked one of his enormous eyebrows and smirked. "Fuck me," the Brit said with authority. "Come on Alfred," his voice held a note of teasing. "You know you want to show me how great the United States is." He paused to suck hard along America's neck, making sure that he would leave a mark on the super power's throat. "Fuck me America," he moaned. "Please love, take me!"

     Alfred didn't need any more encouragement. The younger man almost came right there at the Englishman's breathless requests. He didn't know that it was possible to be this incredibly turned on, but with Arthur writhing beneath him and begging in that sexy accent, Alfred couldn't take much more. He pushed off of his lover in a single motion and began blinding grasping at the bedside table. It only took a moment for his fingers to clamp around the bottle of lubricant that he kept for 'late night emergencies.'

     Lying on his side next to England, America coated his fingers with the substance, the slickness cooling his heated skin. "You ready Arthur?" he questioned, his voice hitched as though he were worried the Englishman would suddenly refuse.

     "I've been ready for years," Arthur smiled tenderly.

     Grinning back, America reached under Arthur's leg and placed the tip of one finger to England's entrance. Using his other hand to brace himself against the bed, he began to circle the tight muscle, coating Arthur's asshole with plenty of lube. For his part, England moaned with pleasure and spread his legs a bit wider, communicating to America how good the contact felt.

     Moving his hips downward, Arthur squirmed against Alfred's finger, hoping to force the digit to enter his tightness. America wanted to spend more time teasing his lover, but he was too impatient himself, so he acquiesced by pushing a single finger into England. Arthur moaned at the intrusion and pressed himself down farther on Alfred's hand.

     "Slow down," Alfred whispered, a tinge of worry behind his voice. "I don't want to hurt you."

     "Well hurry up then," Arthur groaned. "I've waited _decades_ Alfred and I don't want to wait much longer."

     America huffed, "You suddenly got really impatient." But he still smiled and pressed a second slick finger into the island nation, who bucked against him in appreciation.

     Taking his time, sliding the lube soaked fingers against one another, America marveled at how tight England was. He knew the older country definitely had experience in these matters, and he was surprised at how strongly his fingers were engulfed. Apparently it had been a long time for both of them. The thought of a celibate England was strangely satisfying to America and he began to scissor his fingers against the snug walls of England's passage. Nails dug sharply into his shoulder for his trouble. England cried out, and it only sounded a little bit like pain.

     "Are you okay?" America stopped the motion of his hand.

     "Bloody fine," England snapped. "I swear, Alfred if you stop moving one more time I will break your nose again."

     Twisting his fingers once more, America bit back a laugh at his lover's short temper. "Anything for you Artie."

     As he spread the tightness of Arthur, he knew exactly when he had hit the right spot because England yelped and went rigid. Biting his lip, Alfred tested the spot once more, and lightly stroked his fingers, pressing into England gently. The moan that escaped Arthur's mouth was part ecstasy, part scream. "America!" The Brit clenched his muscles around Alfred's fingers and gripped his hands into the younger man's arm.

     Alfred pressed another stroke to Arthur's prostate and upon the second cry of his name, America slipped the third finger into England's ass. The older man didn't even seem to register that there were now three fingers pressing into him. He just kept moaning and crying out America's name, interspersed with "I love you," and "Oh Alfred's."

     He continued to press against Arthur's prostate for several minutes, relishing in the sounds the normally composed man was making. It wasn't long before his own erection became insistent and slightly painful. Reluctantly, America slid his fingers from England and reached once more for the lube.

     When England felt America's fingers slip out of him, he sat up, ready to chastise the younger man, but the lecture was quickly swallowed when he saw that America was spreading lube along the length of his cock. Once Alfred was satisfied with the amount of slickness coating himself, he twisted, and rolled over so that he was pressed flush to Arthur's chest, resting in between the Brit's open thighs.

     Their lips met in a sweet, soft kiss before England nodded once, giving America permission. Alfred lifted up and took himself in his hand, resting his other on Arthur's thigh as he lined his prick up to the stretched entrance.

     As he pushed in gently, America's eyes never left England's. The green eyes of his boyfriend widened as America pressed in further, slowly allowing England to engulf him, inch by inch. After a few moments, America was pressed fully into his lover and he stilled, resting his hands lightly on England's thighs. He wanted to move—he wanted to move fast and hard, but he knew that he needed to wait.

     England's eyes were narrowed and his mouth was set in a frown, but his voice was tender as he whispered, "Kiss me, love."

     Alfred was gentle as he complied with the request, careful not to shift himself too much as he leaned forward and softly touched their lips together. "I love you Artie."

     His lover's only response was a quick nod, indicating that he loved Alfred as well, and that it was finally all right to move. Slowly, America pulled back and then gently pressed into England once more. Both men grunted as America fully sheathed himself once more. A few more gentle strokes had Arthur gripping to Alfred's shoulders tightly and moaning, "You can go harder love. I'll be fine."

     "Are you sure?" Alfred had stilled. He didn't like the glare on Arthur's face, it made him worry that he might be hurting the smaller man.

     "I know my own mind," England snapped in his usual grumpy tone. "Fuck me hard Alfred. Like you mean it. Show me how much you've wanted this."

     The younger nation's blue eyes went wide and his mouth opened as England gripped him tightly and slammed himself down hard onto America. "I am serious Alfred," Arthur said, his voice husky. "I want this so badly. And I know you do as well."

     The American didn't need any more coaxing. He wrapped his arms around his precious England and began a rhythm that was hard and fast and strong. They were both crying out mindlessly within moments as Alfred struck Arthur's spot with one direct hit. The feeling of sliding along inside of England had America almost blind with desire and the repeated hits to his prostate had England practically sobbing with lust.

     "More, my love," England screamed and nipped at America's shoulder.

     The taller man couldn't articulate any words, his mouth open and gasping as he drove hard into his lover. America did have enough sense to reach down and place one of his hands around England's length. He began to match his movements with the strokes to Arthur's cock, causing the island nation to squirm and moan beneath him.

     As Arthur looked up into the face of America, he saw how pink Alfred's face was and how the boy looked so lost in the moment. He knew that the picture of Alfred coming undone as he rode him would be etched onto England's memory forever. America the beautiful.

     With a single hard thrust, Alfred pressed into Arthur and slammed hard against his prostate, spilling himself into the smaller nation as he gasped and pressed his mouth against the Brit's. Arthur's muscles tightened hard around Alfred's cock as he also came, coating their stomachs with his own seed. They lay entwined, panting for a few moments, trying to catch their breath and softly kissing each other, running fingers through hair and along skin. It was the most powerful orgasm either man could remember to date.

     After a minute, Alfred slid out, causing Arthur to gasp at the loss. He rolled to his side and pulled the smaller man to his chest. As the snuggled under the blankets together, they exchanged small kisses and America couldn't seem to stop saying "I love you," which made England smile at the younger man's adorable confessions.

     "You are surprisingly sentimental after sex," England observed, twirling some of America's hair in his fingers.

     "It isn't _sex_ with you," America insisted wide-eyed. "I make _love_ to you."

     Arthur rolled his eyes. "I hate that phrase. It's so…absurd."

     " _You're_ absurd," Alfred teased as he ran his hands down Arthur's bare back.

     "I'm not the one who showed up to a meeting in a shirt declaring my love for one of my allies," England pointed out.

     America blushed and cleared his throat, "You said no more laughing at my expense."

     "Sorry darling," came the accented smirk. "You're just so adorable when you're flustered." England gave him a hard, open mouthed kiss as an apology and America was quick to forgive. They allowed their mouths and hands to roam, exploring for a moment before the broke apart to gasp for air. Their foreheads remained pressed together as they shared a single pillow.

     "This is the best day of my life," America declared as he nuzzled his lover's shoulder.

     "Really?" England quirked an eyebrow and pulled back to look into Alfred's eyes. "I would have thought that this was one of the worst."

     "Well," Alfred blushed, trailing a finger across Arthur's collarbone. "It _was_. But it ended as the best." He met his lover's eyes. "We have each other now."

     "We always had each other," England corrected. "But I know what you mean, love." He pressed a kiss to America's cheek. "It's so pleasing to know that you're mine."

      The American gathered England into a tighter hold in response. The two men snuggled as one, letting their legs to twist, their bodies pressed together as they listened to each other's breathing.

     After a while, America shifted to look into England's green eyes and smiled. "I'm glad you found the key and broke into my house Artie," America said teasingly.

     "The use of a key rules that it wasn't 'breaking in' you twat," England patted the younger man's head affectionately. "But I'm glad as well." Arthur's eyebrows furrowed together as he shot a slight glare at Alfred. "Although," he growled. "I wasn't very amused at _where_ you were keeping said key."

     America laughed loudly. "It was perfect though," he smiled. "I knew you'd find it right away. No one else would notice that stupid unicorn."

     " _Not_ amusing," England insisted pretending to keep up the façade of annoyance.

     America brushed his fingers along Arthur's cheek. "I thought of you every time I saw that dumb statue sitting in the lilac bush." There was a pause where both men gazed at one another, their eyes shining with unspoken affection. Finally Arthur pursed his lips and looked away, making a small huffing sound.

     "I'm keeping that bloody unicorn," England frowned. "And the key that goes with it."

     America smiled and kissed England hard. "You better use that key all the time."

     "I plan on it," England nuzzled America's face with his own. Tilting his head to whisper in Alfred's ear, Arthur caught his lover's earlobe between his lips and sucked hard. "I plan on using that key on the regular and surprising you, lad."

     "Really?" America panted.

     Humming his ascent, England kissed America's jaw. "Absolutely. I plan on walking in on you," Arthur's own breaths were becoming shallower, "And seeing what other little outfits I can find you wearing."

     Gasping, America pushed back against England's chest. "You're getting me hard again babe."

     "I know," Arthur's face looked _just_ a little guilty. "Sorry, love."

     Both men gripped the other close as their breathing evened out. Arthur could feel Alfred's heartbeat beginning to slow as he rested his cheek against his lover's smooth chest. After a few minutes of silence, Alfred spoke. "You really want to see my other clothes?"

     "Mmm, yes," England closed his eyes and burrowed his face against America's body. "I _definitely_ have plans for those chaps," England's admission was low.

     "Do you now?" America grinned. "I'd be happy to wear them for you anytime."

     "Excellent," Arthur pushed up towards his lover and began another round of hot kisses, his tongue slipping into Alfred's mouth and pushing a desperate moan out of the younger man. Teasingly he pulled away, relishing in Alfred's gasp when the contact was broken. "We should really get some sleep," England murmured, snuggling against America's warm, hard body. "We still have a meeting tomorrow."

     "Yeah," Alfred agreed with a pout. He pressed a soft kiss to Arthur's forehead. "And I know just what to wear."

     Arthur hummed a wordless question.

     "It's the perfect outfit babe," America tightened his arms around the man he loved. "Perfect like you. You're gonna love it."

* * *

     Strolling into the conference room the next morning, Alfred had his bomber jacket slung over one shoulder, and the "I Love The U.K." shirt proudly displayed for anyone to see. He was making no attempt to hide today. America's left hand was grasped in England's right and both men walked into the meeting, heads high and gazes unwavering.

     England had scoffed that morning when America had put the embarrassing tee on again, but secretly the Brit was pleased. Alfred could be so childishly adorable at times. At least he had forgone the jeans and opted for tailored suit pants today—which England knew would be deliciously distracting throughout the day. He planned on removing them tonight with his teeth.

     "Angleterre! Amerique!" France cooed as he saw them enter, holding hands. "What is all of that about?" He gestured at their locked fingers.

     "Amerika," Russia smiled disturbingly. "You are wearing your silly shirt again."

     "Yeah," America glared at Ivan, daring the larger man to say more. "I _am_ wearing it again." Alfred cleared his throat and raised his voice. "Listen up dudes," the American shouted.

     "What's going on Al?" Canada spoke quietly from his place at the table.

     "I know that yesterday was a little weird," America began. "I wasn't… _myself_ …" He smiled as he felt England's hand squeeze his. "But things are great now and I'm back to normal!"

     "That's not necessarily a good thing," Germany grumbled.

     America ignored him, but England shot a glare at the tall Germanic nation. "I'm wearing this shirt again because—honestly, it's one of my favorites and what it says—" He pointed at the declaration emblazoned across his chest—"is _totally_ true!"

     There was a heavy silence as the other nations either smirked and nodded, or looked entirely confused.

     "I'm in love with England!" America shouted, turning to smile at Arthur. "And he loves me! Right?"

     England began to blush, but he didn't stop America's booming public confession. "Right, yes. I love him." England mumbled, allowing America to continue, talking over his assent.

     "And we're together now," Alfred added. "We're going to be together _forever_! The 'Special Relationship' has Leveled Up!" England rolled his eyes at that. "I just wanted you all to know that England's off the market now—he's _mine_!" America's boyish face broke into a huge grin, but as he made eye contact with the other nations they all saw the possessiveness and the warning in the young country's blue eyes.

     "It's about time," France broke the silence and voiced the thought going through almost everyone's head. Murmurs of agreement came through the group as the rest of the countries began to agree with "Yeah's" and "Took you long enough's."

     "See Al," Canada admonished, clapping his brother lightly on the back. "You were worried for no reason."

     "Oui," France interrupted. "Anyone with a brain in their head could see that you and Angleterre are hopelessly in love with one another."

     "Well, _we_ didn't see it Frog!" England spat. France simply cocked and eyebrow and all the assembled nations grinned at Arthur's statement. "Well," England deadpanned, "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

     Nodding, France chuckled at the flustered Brit who was now sputtering that he did indeed have a brain combining incoherent ramblings mixed with colorful curses. "You see, mon ami," France grinned as he fluffed his hair, "I helped you."

     "You just made everything worse, Frog!" England retorted, but while his tone was angry, he still smiled affectionately at his friend. Muttering under his breath so no one else could hear, he nodded at France and said, "Thank you."

     "Do not trouble yourself," France whispered back. "You know how I enjoy helping love find its way into the world."

     England glared unconvincingly at the Frenchman who smirked and took his seat at the table saying "I am happy for you, mon ami."

     "Ja, we are all very pleased for you both. However, we are already very behind schedule after yesterday," Germany sighed. "Let us get started, shall we?"

     "Excellent notion Germany," England agreed in an attempt to prove that he was still a hard-working and respectable country despite the events of the previous day. "Let's begin."

     The nations all took their usual seats and began to organize their paperwork, in preparation for the day's meeting.

     Just as they always did, England and America took their seats next to one another. But unlike meetings past, they didn't turn away or make biting comments. They simply sank down into their chairs and smiled at each other.

     England slipped his hand under the conference table and grasped America's palm tightly. Surprise flicking across the Alfred's face, he looked down at their joined hands and then up to Arthur's face. England's green eyes glittered as he smiled at his new lover and squeezed his hand. "I love you," he whispered.

     America's face broke into a huge grin—the kind that he had when he talked about Disney World, or his favorite foods. "I love you too," his smile widened and his blue eyes sparkled back at his boyfriend.

     Arthur leaned in and gave Alfred a faint brush of his lips, quickly kissing the younger man's cheek. "I love you Alfred F. Jones," England nuzzled his ear. "And I'm going to tell you every day.


	8. Racy Regalia

** Epilogue: Racy Regalia (One More Outfit) **

     "Can you come upstairs love?" Arthur called.

     America made his way up to their bedroom—it was truly _theirs_ now. The two nations had been dating for over a year, and based on the decades that they had been in love with each other, America knew that this was a love that was going to last until the end of time. Which was a good thing, since they were immortal and all that.

     A month after one of the worst twenty-four hours of America's modern existence, followed by a week of constant cuddling, kissing and most importantly _sex_ , America had insisted that they 'cohabitate'—as best as nations could. He and England had opened their homes to the other, and allowed for each man to make changes so that they both felt completely comfortable in the other's house. England bought a coffee maker for his kitchen and America bought a swinging bench for his newly landscaped garden.

     The two men stayed with one another as often as their schedules and duties as nations allowed—which wasn't anywhere near enough in either man's opinion. But their 'special relationship' was stronger than ever, and both countries knew that the sex was the hottest that they had ever experienced. America had always been told that it was better when you loved someone and now he knew that France had been right—sex with England was amazing. The love really did make a difference. He had never felt more connected to another in his entire existence.

     Reaching the bedroom door, America smiled as he saw his lover lounging on their king size bed, wearing a black silk robe and smiling naughtily at him. "Hey," he licked his lips and walked over toward England. Arthur was smiling at him in an incredibly predatory way. "What's up Artie?"

     "I think I have an idea of what I'd like for my birthday," the Englishman grinned. America made a small noise that sounded somewhat like laughter. His boyfriend's sadistic smile was unnerving him a little.

     "What's that?" Alfred wondered if he should even ask.

     England smirked and pointed toward a gift bag that had been placed on the bed. "Let's play dress up," the island nation purred, waving his hand at the bag.

     America relaxed a little. Dressing up and role-playing was easy. He could handle that—it was a common occurrence in their bedroom.

     "I will wear anything you want babe," confidence restored, the American sauntered over toward the bed. "It's your birthday after all."

     Smiling he picked up the bag and stuck his hand inside, digging around through the tissue paper. His hand clamped around something cold and metallic. Pulling out the contents, America's face dropped as he realized that the bag contained one of the most iconic film costumes of all time. No. Freaking. Way.

     England smiled evilly. "I thought it would look gorgeous on you."

     "It would look better on you babe," Alfred tried to laugh casually. "You're the one with the amazing legs."

     "Yes," Arthur agreed. "But I want to see _you_ in it."

     America looked down at the metal Slave Leia bikini in his hands and grimaced. "Seriously?" he asked, hoping to get out of his promise.

     "Put it on," Arthur stood up and pulled his robe off to reveal a stunningly accurate Han Solo vest and tight pants combo. The leggings even had the Corellian Stripe running down the side.

     "Woah," Alfred breathed. "You look so _hot_!"

     "Yes, I know," Arthur smirked, completely in character. He slid up to Alfred's side and gave the younger man a sharp slap on the behind. "Run along and change _Leia_."

     Alfred placed a quick kiss onto England's lips and said "I know I said I wanted to do 'Star Wars,' but I always kinda thought I'd be Han."

     "You're adorable," England guided the taller blonde toward the bathroom. "But let's be honest darling, _I'm_ the one with actual smuggling _experience_."

     Behind the half-way closed bathroom door, America snorted as he slipped into the metal bikini—of course his boyfriend would bring up the 'Pirate' part of his resume in order to get the part he wanted. "Okay, babe," Alfred consented. "But next time—I'm Han!"

     "Of course love," Arthur agreed.

     "Good," America said. "Cause I wanna see you in this—your legs would look so freaking amazing."

     "I know," England chuckled. "I have fantastic legs—you never let me forget. But right now, I want to see _you_."

     The bathroom door slowly swung open to reveal American decked out from head to toe in the green and gold metallic fantasy. Arthur's breath caught. America made him sit through the original Star Wars Trilogy at least once a month and after the third viewing England had decided that he _definitely_ needed to see Alfred in the iconic bikini. It was everything he had ever dreamed of.

     Sliding up to his boyfriend, Arthur ran his hand down Alfred's defined chest, toying with the bikini top for a moment before reaching behind America's neck and snapping the final piece of the costume into place.

     "Dude," America laughed. "The neck chain? Really?"

     "It's not complete without the restraint and you know it," England insisted. He began to slowly walk backwards toward the bed, lightly tugging on the chain. America obeyed and followed as England gently maneuvered him where he desired. "Now," England breathed. "It seems as if I have just helped to rescue you from that giant worm's palace…"

     "Jabba," America piped up. "Giant worm's name is Jabba."

     "Whatever," England rolled his eyes. " _Jabba's_ palace."

     America smirked. He was going to turn England into the biggest Star Wars fan in the world—besides himself of course.

     "Is there anything you would like to do to thank me for such a daring rescue?" England tilted his head, the cocky expression on his face capturing the character perfectly.

     "Mmm," America hummed. "I'm sure I could think of something you scruffy looking nerfherder," he countered while lightly pushing Arthur back onto the bed.

     England gasped as America's lips found his neck. "Who are you calling," the island nation moaned as Alfred licked his sensitive throat. "'Scruffy looking?'" he quoted breathlessly.

     Their little game was abandoned for a moment as the two men locked together, their hands, lips and tongues exploring everything they could reach. Arthur nipped lightly at Alfred's mouth and pressed his tongue roughly against his lover's lips. As their tongues danced against one another, their hands gripped and caressed, both men reveling in the feel of the other's flesh.

     As the passion between them grew, America found his metal bikini to be incredibly uncomfortable, and he reached down to unclasp the side, only to have his hand slapped away. Arthur gripped his younger lover's hips and ground against him as he undid the clasps of the costume himself. He had picked the outfit after all, it was only fair that he was the one to remove it from America's gorgeous form.

     "Arthur," Alfred moaned into his boyfriend's mouth. "I want you so bad!"

     Without warning, England locked his legs around America's hips and used his surprise attack to flip the larger man, abruptly switching their positions. England wriggled his hips against America's pelvis as he made himself comfortable between the younger nation's thighs.

     "Careful what you ask for, lad," England smirked, leaning over his grinning boyfriend with a predatory look. "You know you're dealing with a pirate."

     America hummed and pressed a kiss to Arthur's lips. "I've always liked scoundrels."

* * *


End file.
